The Fox and the Hound
by Darkfangz13
Summary: Set in the height of World War II, Mycroft Holmes is a spymaster for MI6 who is put up to the task of tracking down two German spies in England with the help of his younger brother, a cryptologist from Bletchly Park, and a haunted soldier from the frontlines. And just who is this agent codenamed 'the Fox', who has been sent to stop him? Just who is hunting who in this game?
1. Prologue

Prologue

The tiny pub was dimly lit and smoggy with cigarette smoke, tucked somewhere discreet and cozy in a back alley in Soho. It was called the Blue Piano.

Inside, Jerry tipped his cap and determinedly plunked out a few vaguely jazzy tunes on the worn-out old blue piano in question. There was a dirty tin bowl on the piano that a few customers would occasionally toss coins into.

Kristen rubbed a few glasses at the bar and always joked that the old beauty was on its last legs and would soon give out its last melodies. Maybe then she'd have an excuse to reform the pub and rename it something classier.

Giselle sauntered around several tables, hips sashaying provocatively, winking and simpering at the whistles and catcalls that were thrown her way.

Those three were constants at this pub. They were all their patrons needed. Music, drink, and a body to keep them warm at night. What more could they want?

All in all, it was just another day.

"'Ello, handsome." Giselle giggled, slightly drunk, suddenly dumping herself and her many skirts onto a handsome stranger.

The 'handsome stranger' was middle aged with silvery hair, a firm body, and eyes like chocolate. It also didn't hurt that he didn't seem so unhappy to suddenly have a lapful of woman sprawled over his poker game.

His liquid brown eyes twinkled. "Hey there, Gorgeous." he smiled back boyishly, squeezing her ample rear and keeping the prostitute from falling off him with one hand as he knocked back his drink with the other.

He looked years younger than he was when he grinned that charming lopsided quirk of his.

Just then, four men - three in dark overcoats and one in a plain brown jacket with elbow patches - walked in.

The stranger playing poker saw them, startled, and grinned brighter. He planted a kiss on Giselle's neck and moved her off himself as he surreptitiously stood, tossing down his hand as he grabbed his coat.

Full house. And indeed it was.

"Sorry, darling." he whispered in Giselle's ear as the four men caught sight of him from across the pub. "Must dash."

And then he was darting away, jacket flapping from one fist as he rushed out to the back room.

"Stop! Police!" One of the pursuing men shouted, dashing after him and tripping over Jerry's piano. Coins, loose piano keys, and one copper flew everywhere and Kristen heard laughter like a witch's cackle waft out of the back room before she heard the back door slam.

The stranger was gone.

"Well done, Dimmock." The tallest of the four coated men spat scathingly. "You've embarrassed yourself expertly."

"No need to be so awful about it." The only blonde of the group remarked. It was the man without an overcoat. "At least he tried."

"No use trying when you're only going to fail." The last man spoke with smooth, cultured tones, toying with the handle of his umbrella.

The man on the floor groaned and got to his feet, dusting himself off. "Well!" he huffed. "That certainly did not go as expected."

The curly haired, spitfire tongued gentleman turned to Kristen. "Well that settles it!" He slid cat-like onto a stool. "I need a drink."

Kristen stared at the mismatched group and numbly set a glass in front of the tall gentleman.

And until now, today was looking so boring. Funny how that turned out.

* * *

Three months earlier...

It was a warm, spring day when Mrs. Hudson saw the car amble up the driveway while she was tending the garden. Having guests was one of those things Mrs. Hudson reveled in, pity visitations didn't occur often enough these days.

Mrs. Hudson wiped dirt off her hands and hurried out to meet the visitor.

Out of the back seat stepped a rather distinguished-looking young man with warm copper hair and icy eyes.

This man - Mrs. Hudson knew - was Mycroft Holmes, the British Secret Service's youngest running spymaster. This was a man who, before the age of thirty, outed two amateur German spies, persuaded one to continue as a double agent, and by thirty five years, trained three British agents who were now stationed somewhere in German Occupied Europe.

And this illustrious spymaster has a younger brother.

"Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft greeted the little woman cordially. "So lovely to see you again. Is Sherlock in?"

"As always." Mrs. Hudson shook her head in a motherly way. "Locked himself in his office three days ago. Won't open the door, even for food!"

Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "Very well, please lead me to him."

He was led through bare corridors and heavily machined rooms that were occupied by several women at desks working tirelessly away at type-writer-like devices that Mycroft knew to be Enigma Machines, a sort of special cipher machine that was used to encrypt, and vice-versa, decrypt German secret messages that they intercepted.

This was the main decryption establishment of the United Kingdom, Bletchley Park.

This is also where Sherlock Holmes worked.

Mrs. Hudson halted in a dark doorway and knocked gently. "Sherlock?" she called.

"Go away! Can't you understand I'm working?" A brash, irrational voice shouted back.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, be reasonable. Open the door." he growled.

There was a sudden cacophony of noise from inside the room, papers flying about, keys on a keyboard being haphazardly pressed, and the sound of wood sliding against wood.

Mycroft exchanged a weary look with Mrs. Hudson. "He's trying to escape out of the window, isn't he?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed like a disappointed mother hen. "He doesn't seem to look forward to meeting you anymore than the last time you came."

Mycroft inwardly groaned and retraced his steps, moving the meeting outside where his driver had caught his wayward brother firmly by the back of his shirt collar. Mycroft felt a thunderous migraine growing behind his eyeballs when he saw the state of his brother.

If anything, his younger brother had grown taller, thinner, and paler in his absence. His black hair curled as wildly now as it it had when the young man was twelve. His shirt seemingly hadn't been changed since he locked himself up, the sleeves rolled up at the elbow, his hands and trousers were smudged with ink, and his shoes were nowhere to be found.

"Sherlock." he sighed reprimandingly.

"Brother dear." Sherlock smiled back wincingly. The expression looked so fake, it hurt. "To what do I owe the honour of meeting you here?"

"I had a call late last night informing me that you decrypted a German message hinting toward a German spy in Britain?" Mycroft reminded.

"And like I said; I'm working." Sherlock scowled back. "Get someone else to fill you in, surely it doesn't have to be me?"

Mycroft leveled him a glare. "As I heard it, you detached only long enough to inform Mrs. Hudson of what you found before you locked yourself back up in that infernal fortress of codes you revel in hiding in!"

Sherlock let out a great sigh and went limp in the grip of Mycroft's driver. "Fine."

"You know, we could've all been spared this dreadful meeting if you had only told Mrs. Hudson the details of your discovery." Mycroft huffed as he herded his brother back into the building where Mrs. Hudson was brewing tea.

"Bollocks."

* * *

After a long and much overdue bath and change of clothes, Sherlock joined Mycroft over Mrs. Hudson's tea.

"The German agent is referred to only as 'Napoleon'." Sherlock opened up the topic of conversation. "He came up on my radar half a year ago. So far, mentions of him have put him in Paris, Lisbon, Norway, and once to Britain."

"What can you tell me about him?" Mycroft questioned him.

"I can tell you that he is most-likely of Irish origins. Napoleon's German handlers constantly complain about his mood swings. They describe him as being friendly and charming one moment, then rather angry and violent moments later." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. "In the reports to higher ups, his handlers say that he is strategically brilliant, an expert in explosions, and natural linguist, fluent in English, German, and French. However, he has no patience for radio communications and waiting for orders." Sherlock thought about it for a moment. "From what little I know of him, he seems averse to authority figures, most-likely stemming from a previous life of crime."

"I'll have Scotland Yard assist us on that point." Mycroft sighed reluctantly. "If he has a criminal record, they will find it."

"On his visit to Britain, he was said to have been dropped by plane in Cambridgeshire. The police in the area had been informed, but lost him, apparently." Sherlock scoffed. "The great fools."

"I had heard about the unhappy incident." Mycroft sighed. "But, if we had known about this spy earlier, what is the urgency now?"

"In the last message I decrypted, they mentioned another mission to Britain." Sherlock replied.

Mycroft frowned. "I see..."

"Also..." Sherlock added in afterthought. "They also remark on his fondness for another British citizen-come-German spy codenamed; Heinz."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Apparently, they met sometime between Napoleon's first mission to Britain and returning to his base of operations in Paris." Sherlock shrugged. "Since then, they have been notoriously inseparable. It's a main source of a pain for his handlers as Napoleon is a quick-witted, sly character who seemingly always gets his way. I can only assume that he will somehow manage to convince the higher ups to send this Heinz here with him."

"It would be a great relief if we can capture these two in one fell swoop." Mycroft mused.

"Better get on it, then?" Sherlock said almost hopefully, eager to be rid of his hated brother.

"What are you talking about?" Mycroft replied breezily. "You're coming too."

"What!" Sherlock jumped up, spilling his tea. "No Mycroft, I have to stay here and continue my work. You want more information on this spy, I assume?"

"Of course I do. But constantly communicating by phone or radio is just begging for a leak in intelligence, and as much as I enjoy coming to Bletchley Park, I cannot continue to drive back and forth from London just to satisfy your need for privacy." Mycroft said with a smirk. "That is why we are bringing your equipment with us to my flat in London."

Sherlock opened his mouth soundlessly, then closed it. "No, you cannot do this." he stated firmly. "Mycroft!"

"You will find, brother dear." Mycroft smiled sweetly back at him. "That I can."

And as always, Mycroft Holmes got his way.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

He moved silently through the darkness of the field as if he had nightvision, slipping through the underbrush and depositing his satchel onto the train track with a great care. He loosened the drawstring mouth of the bag and pulled out two great bricks of explosives.

With nimble fingers, he fashioned a crude timed fuse with a wristwatch and a few screws and set it on the explosives.

When he had set his bomb, he set it on the train tracks and slid back into the dark oblivion like a ghost. Just in time too, not twenty seconds later, he saw the light of a train approaching in the far distance.

It was a supply train, the saboteur knew. He had studied the train's schedule, after all. There would be very few deaths.

He turned and ran through the foliage, away from the scene. He didn't even look back as thirty seconds after his retreat, he saw fire light up the sky behind him and felt heat on his back as he listened to the screech of protesting metal.

There was an earth-shattering rumble as the supply train derailed and fell onto its side, grinding to a halt a few meters off the track.

The saboteur never slowed, never looked back.

He just kept running.

Like a fox in flight.

* * *

In Central London, Sherlock Holmes was a very unhappy cryptographer... which resulted in a very unhappy spymaster. The two unhappy men were seated in plush leather armchairs over tumblers of brandy as night fell.

Mycroft sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, don't be difficult."

"You've kidnapped me." Sherlock snapped back. "I think I have every right to be difficult."

Mycroft mentally counted to ten in Russian and and lowered his hand. "How do the Germans plan to get their agent to Britain?"

"By plane." Sherlock replied, lighting up a cigarette and puffing thoughtfully. "They plan to drop him somewhere in Kent."

"Kent..." Mycroft repeated thoughtfully and stood up, calling one of his associates on his phone. "Anthea, yes... By plane. In Kent. Very well, keep me posted." He hung up.

Sherlock blew out another plume of smoke. "This German agent..." he said slowly. "He's brilliant. Your agents will never catch him."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, expression unreadable. "Oh? And how did you come to that conclusion?"

Sherlock scoffed derisively. "Did I tell you how this agent 'Napoleon' came to work for the Germans?"

Mycroft sat back down and shook his head.

"It happened by a bungle-up by our favorite Welsh double agent, Agent SNOW." Mycroft's eyebrows raised. "The Secret Intelligence Services arranged for a double agent, Agent Brook, to be put into contact with the Germans as a recruited double agent scouted by Agent SNOW for the Germans."

"Ah..." Mycroft grunted, feeling like he had heard this story sometime before. He was not an agent on the operation, but word got around.

"Agent Brook was instructed to get on a German U-boat off the coast and shipped to German occupied France." Sherlock continued. "However..."

Here, Mycroft cut him off. "... Agent Brook never got onto the U-boat. But someone else did. Someone who diligently reported back to Agent Brook's British handlers via the agent's transmitter in the prearranged code and signature." Mycroft entwined his hands and leaned his chin on them. "Our agents continued contact, calling the agent 'Brook', for months without suspicion before locals recovered the real Richard Brook's body and our boys realized the deception."

"By that time, Agent Napoleon was already an invaluable spy for Germany." Sherlock sighed.

"Quite the snake, that one." Mycroft mused.

"Quite the mastermind." Sherlock agreed, a slight hint of intrigue and admiration in his eyes.

"Not feeling quite so unhappy about being dragged into the city now, Sherlock?" Mycroft smirked knowingly.

"Beats the dull old machines." Sherlock admitted with an excited smirk.

The game was on.

* * *

The saboteur from the train tracks spent his day in a tiny little flat, shoved under a slanted roof, in Soho. He sat before his cheap, wooden desk on which lay a wireless radio transmitter. The man smoked lazily as he relayed his message.

**MISSION COMPLETE. AWAITING FURTHER ORDERS. DER FUCHS. PARIS.**

The last word of the message, the capital of France, while unrelated to the content of the message itself, served as a codeword to signal that all was well. If he was under any suspicion, the message would be signed of with 'LISBON', and if caught by the enemy and forced to transmit, nothing added at all.

The saboteur sat back, blowing smoke rings into the air absently as he tipped his seat backward, causing a light rocking motion.

Then, he crushed the butt of his smoked cigarette onto the surface of the desk, packed his radio away and hid it under his clothes and other belongings in a small closet before he left the flat, locking it up securely behind him.

Perhaps he'd get a drink at the pub almost directly below his second floor flat.

The Blue Piano.

* * *

"Heinz?" A young man called out calmly over the noise of plane engines. "Tiger, darling?"

A low grunt was the only indication that the man's companion had heard.

"I think I'm about to piss myself."

That got a sharp bark of laughter. A moment later, the plane's hatch was tugged open and wind spat air at them.

The gruff, silent half of the pair slapped the first man on the shoulder in encouragement as he passed him and effortlessly eased himself through the hatch in the floor and disappeared into the night skies.

"Oh, showoff." The first man grumbled. "Makes it look so easy."

Then, he inched over toward the hatch and shimmied halfway through the hatch when he hesitated, legs dangling out of the plane into open air.

"Hurry! You'll miss your drop point! Jump, now!" One of the German pilots shouted back at him urgently in his own language.

"Ich no verstehe, German!" The man in the back snapped back, only every other word in German. This was done deliberately, of course, the man was fluent in the language.

The two pilots laughed at the 'dummes Engländer'

"That's 'stupid _Irish_', to you!" The man shouted at them, slightly scandalized. "Irisch! You dumb shits! Irisch! Not English!"

And then he was suddenly gone from the plane, tumbling through the air in somersaults before he figured out which way was up. It all looked the same in the dark.

After counting down the precise seconds in his head, the man deployed his parachute.

His landing had much to be desired, but he survived. He was just not cut out for the jumping-out-of-planes thing. His head throbbed and his vision swam for a moment as he stumbled about in the dark, disorientated.

There was a sudden noise to his left and a hand clamped down on his shoulder. His first reaction was to fling the hand off and retaliate, but his punch was caught by his rather amused looking partner.

The bastard didn't even look disheveled from the fall. He was smirking slightly.

"Oh, don't pull that face on me!" The harassed Irishman glared as his partner helped him out of his harness. When he was free, the Irishman smoothed out his rumpled clothes. "Am I bleeding?" he asked in afterthought. The throbbing in his head hadn't let up yet, he figured something was wrong.

His partner, Heinz, watched blood pour out of his partner's nose but didn't react. "No, you're not bleeding." he lied flatly.

"Well, something feels leaky."

"Let's just get out of here." Heinz urged, grabbing his partner by the shoulder and guiding him out of the field they had landed in.

They saw policemen in the distance. Shit! They must've been warned that they were coming and had seen them descend.

Heinz pushed his partner toward a nearby house where he had seen a vehicle parked. His partner, Agent Napoleon, would probably faint at the sight of his own blood. Other peoples' blood, on the other hand...

"Police! Stand where you are!" An officer shouted, baton gripped tight in his hand.

Heinz nearly rolled his eyes. A baton? Ooh, he was so scared!

He swiftly disarmed the hapless policeman, and the next after that, ruthlessly snapping their necks without even breaking a sweat. Batons? It was laughable. Heinz was a human weapon of mass destruction, a walking arsenal.

He wrenched open the car door and shoved Napoleon inside the backseat before climbing into the driver's seat and hot wiring the vehicle.

They rammed another copper in their escape but not much else of interest happened on their way to Hertfordshire.

Heinz glanced into the back and sure enough...

"Oh shit, you little bugger, I _am_ bleeding! I'm going to _die_ Heinz, hold me!" Napoleon swooned exaggeratedly. Heinz turned back and stared out of the windshield, stoically pretending that he had heard and seen nothing.

Ah, he'd be fine. ... Probably.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Mycroft accepted the phonecall early the next morning.

"Yes? This is Holmes." he intoned as he held the receiver in one hand and poured two cups of tea with the other. "Hm... I see."

Sherlock took that moment to amble into the sitting room in his dressing gown, hair sticking up every which way, blinking owlishly, just having woken up. Mycroft frowned at him and Sherlock sent back a rebellious glare.

"Last night?" Mycroft redirected his attention to Anthea, who was on the other end of the line. "Oh, dear. Were there any casualties?"

Sherlock took his cup of tea and poured a dash of milk into it before making himself comfortable on the sofa.

Mycroft sat in the armchair, phone still glued to his ear. "Very well." He said with a note of finality. Then, he listened some more. "A supply train? When?" He frowned again. "Do we know who?"

Sherlock munched grumpily on a scone and waited for Mycroft to finish.

Finally, Mycroft hung up. He looked contemplative for a moment, staring out of the window, gears in his mind turning. "Huh." he said at length.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Well?" He asked. "Have they got him?"

Mycroft entwined his fingers on his lap. "Agent Napoleon? No. They haven't gotten him. They lost him. He and another man, presumably Agent Heinz, killed two policemen and ran over a third with a car."

Sherlock threw his hands up. "I knew it! Incompetent, all of them!"

"Also, it seems that someone has sabotaged a supply train sometime last night." Mycroft informed him.

Sherlock looked at him. "Do you think the two events are connected somehow?"

"It seems an awful coincidence to me." Mycroft shrugged. "But then again, spooks like I are trained not to believe in coincidences."

Sherlock seemed to wrack his mind for something. "There was another agent in Britain, a freelance spy of sorts, codenamed: der Fuchs." he muttered.

"'Der Fuchs'?" Mycroft echoed. "The Fox?"

"Yes, British citizen." Sherlock nodded. "The Americans and the French Resistance occasionally utilize his skills when he is present in German occupied Europe. His loyalties have never firmly been established, thus his codename."

"How did you come by information on this... Fox?" Mycroft asked him.

"A German-American spy, Irene Adler, you know her." Mycroft nodded grimly. "She knew him. It was she who informed us of his skill in sabotage. Apparently, he had been taught such skills by the Germans."

"I see."

"He rarely does much. Blows up a train here, assassinates a foreign ambassador there, anything the Germans put him up to." Sherlock shrugged. "British intelligence, pathetic lot that they are, have never even gotten close enough to see his tail, despite the fact that he's been living somewhere in England for years."

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock's jibe at the Secret Service but ignored it. "We can take care of the Fox later." he said decisively. "First, we must capture Agent Napoleon."

"How do you suppose we do that?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft sat back. "I studied up on Agents Napoleon and Heinz last night." he said. "Seems like Heinz has a wonderful way with guns. Worked as a sniper for the Germans in a few skirmishes before meeting Napoleon and becoming a spy."

Sherlock steepled his fingers. "If he worked as a sniper..." he mused. "Is there anybody who's escaped his crosshairs?"

Mycroft smirked a bit. "I'll do you one better." he said. "I found a man who not only went up against Heinz and survived, but returned fire." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Word has it that he and Heinz battled it out in the field with sniper rifles and their wits for the greater part of a week. I can imagine he knows more about the man's psyche and skills than the British and German intelligence combined."

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "Well? Are you going to tell me who this mystery man is sometime this year?"

Mycroft handed him a file. "Captain John H. Watson." he said as Sherlock took the file and flipped it open.

Sherlock pointed at a spot in the file. "It says here 'Doctor'."

Mycroft smirked. "He's a medic, not even a sniper. That was the best part about it."

Sherlock snorted and returned his attention to the file. "He was shot." the younger Holmes noted. "By our man Heinz."

"It would give him good incentive to help us track him down." Mycroft replied.

"He was shipped back once to England, but instead of being honourably discharged, set his jaw, and took the next ship back out." Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "He's a bloody idiot. You'd think he's had enough."

"He's gotten a taste of action." Mycroft shrugged. "Now he can't live without it."

Sherlock folded the file in his lap and tapped his fingers on his knee. "Where is he stationed now?"

"He _was_ stationed in Tobruk, North Africa." Mycroft replied. "I've already sent out an envoy to pick him up."

Sherlock tossed the file on the coffee table and lounged, lengthwise, on the sofa, hands folded under his chin.

"Excuse me, I have to think a bit."

Mycroft scoffed. "Take all the time you need."

* * *

"Mmmmm." Agent Napoleon hummed incessantly like a mosquito because he was bored and being a spy in enemy territory was not as exciting as it was depicted in the movies.

Heinz rolled his eyes - a dangerous thing to do, considering they were still driving - and let out an exasperated groan.

_"Hmmmmm!"_ Napoleon continued, more whiny now and demanding attention.

"I will kill you if you make another sound." Heinz said flatly.

There were two minutes of blessed silence before Napoleon let out a sigh of boredom and went back to humming merrily, ignoring the threat.

Heinz was a trained sniper, but he didn't have that much patience. He grabbed a canteen of water from the shotgun seat and lobbed it into the back without looking.

It expertly beaned Napoleon on the side of the head, proving that this sort of thing had happened before... many times.

There was a pained yelp followed by a stunned silence, before...

"Darling, I love you and all, but I will have your skin if you make me bleed." Napoleon stated calmly.

"Hum at me again, and I will cut off your lips." Heinz returned in the same tone.

"I'm bored."

"And I hate you."

"... Love you too, Tiger."

Heinz rolled his eyes.

They continued driving.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The two German spies drew up to their destination late that night. The de Havilland aircraft factory in Hertfordshire was dark and deserted, all the workers having left for the night.

This was what they had come to see. Well, it would be more accurate to say that this was what they had come to see... blow up.

The aircrafts that de Havilland produced - the Mosquitos - were frontline combat aircrafts and the Germans wanted them cut out of the equation. That was what the Germans had sent Napoleon and Heinz to sabotage.

They scaled the wired fence outside the factory and snuck into the grounds, setting their bombs.

The timers were set to blow in an hour to give them ample time to flee the scene, but one of Napoleon's bombs detonated prematurely, causing the rest of the explosives to go off and forced the two German spies to take off at a dead run to escape the ensuing blast.

The shockwave knocked them both to the ground and flame licked at them briefly before surging back.

Heinz was not sure whether this was done deliberately by Napoleon to mess with him and their mission, but nevertheless, he treated Napoleon as if it was.

It was a safe bet. Napoleon was always causing trouble.

"Ow, ow, ow!" Napoleon yelped as Heinz grabbed him by the ear hard and threw him back into the back passenger seat of their stolen car. "Ow! _Heinz!_"

Heinz rounded the car to the driver's seat and jumped in. "Don't talk." he said warningly and floored the gas pedal.

The car leapt forward and Heinz reminded himself that they should change vehicles before the police tracked this one down.

"Sorry." Napoleon said unapologetically.

"The Hell." Heinz grumbled, running a hand over his gun holster contemplatively.

"I said I was sorry!" Napoleon whined.

"And you heard what_ I_ said!" Heinz snapped back.

There was a moment's silence. "I think I burned my eyebrows off." Napoleon sighed at length.

The car screeched to a halt on the side of the street and Heinz spun around in his seat, eyes widened fractionally.

"Oh, this I've _got_ to see."

Napoleon had his forehead covered by his hands. "Will you forgive me if I show you?"

"Sure, why not?" Heinz replied easily.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes that afternoon to see a short man with blonde hair sitting in one of Mycroft's armchairs nervously.

Funny, he hadn't even noticed him arrive. Not uncommon, though, he had been visiting his Mind Palace, after all. He was quite dead to the world when he did that.

"Captain John Watson." he greeted.

The smaller man jumped, startled. "Oh...!" He smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. I didn't notice you woke up."

"I wasn't sleeping."

Just then, Mycroft walked into the room. "Ah, Sherlock, back with us, I see."

John stood to attention like a good little soldier.

"Oh, don't do that." Sherlock said.

John looked at him, bewildered. "Excuse me?"

"What my brother means - I'm sure - is that you should remain seated." Mycroft said. "Wouldn't do to upset the leg."

John stiffened. "What leg?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The psychosomatic limp. Obviously."

"Obv-..." John looked confused. "Sorry, your secretary showed me in and neither of you have seen me walk. Who said anything about a psychosomatic limp?"

"We did, Doctor Watson, we did." Mycroft hummed placatingly.

"You winced when you stood up." Sherlock told the army doctor. "Considerable stiffness in the leg, probably built up from the flight back from the frontlines."

"Now, now, Sherlock." Mycroft admonished. "Play nice."

"How do you supply medical assistance on the field?" Sherlock asked, ignoring Mycroft. "Conduct surgeries? You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand."

John turned red. "I've _never_ messed up in the field, thank you very much!" he defended himself angrily.

"Naturally," Mycroft crossed his arms. "this is because his hands _don't_ shake when he is under extreme pressure. Do pay attention, Sherlock. The reason he gained these unfortunate set backs was not because he was haunted by the war... but because he missed it." The spymaster regarded John with a polite smile. "Welcome back." Whether it was to England, or war he was welcoming John back to, was unknown. He looked at his younger brother. "Are we done playing playground bully, Sherlock?"

Sherlock growled, rolling his eyes, and sat up.

Satisfied, Mycroft turned back to John. "My most sincere apologies, Doctor Watson." he said apologetically. "Pleased to meet you, I am Mycroft Holmes, and the rude one in the dressing gown is my brother Sherlock. Do put on some proper clothes, please." This was directed at the younger Holmes.

"Why should I?" Sherlock returned stubbornly.

Mycroft shook his head wryly and looked at John. "He is a stubborn and manner-less young man. Please do not kill him. He has enough enemies as it is."

"And my brother is a lying, cold-blooded killer." Sherlock returned, voice saccharine. "Please do not _be_ killed by him. He has enough ghosts as it is."

The two Holmeses began a heated stare-down.

John got in between them, clearing his throat. "Um, sorry to intrude on the sibling squabbles, but what am I doing here?" he asked.

"Anthea didn't tell you?" Mycroft asked.

"Um... no." John shrugged. "She only said that it was urgent and highly classified."

Sherlock scoffed. "Typical. Listen, Doctor Watson, when someone says that to you, it usually means that he, or she, doesn't know."

"Or that it really is classified." Mycroft returned.

"Mycroft is a spymaster." Sherlock declared flatly. "Well, actually, he is the British government."

Mycroft glared sharply at Sherlock. "For God's sakes, Sherlock! Not this again!"

"It's all true." Sherlock continued dryly. "Winston Churchill is Mycroft's second in command."

John sat back down heavily as he watched the two Holmeses begin their second round of stare-down.

"Can I leave?" he asked timidly.

Neither of the Holmeses even heard him speak.

* * *

Der Fuchs, known in his own language as 'the Fox', fell out of bed with a thud when the message came in. He scrambled to uncover his radio and set it down on the writing desk in his room.

**NAPOLEON AND HEINZ COMPLETED TASK. TAKE PARCEL AND MOVE TO LOCATION.**

The message was concise. The Fox had been given a parcel by his German handlers last time he was in France and told to keep it until he was given further instructions.

He knew what was in the package. Fake documentations for two, an unassembled sniper rifle, and a book of Grimm's Fairytales.

The location in question had been taught to him before he had infiltrated England as well.

He pulled out the parcel in question and stuffed it into a bag that he slung over his shoulder. He set a flat cap on his head, worn old boots on his feet, and ambled off to St. Bart's Hospital.

"Oh, Aiden!" One of the nurses, Molly Hooper, greeted him with a smile.

The Fox, Aiden, smiled back. "Hey, Molly. How are you holding up?"

Molly put on a forced smile. "I'm good, thanks..." the Fox sent her a piercing look. "Well... not so good, actually." the woman confessed. "You must've heard and felt those bombs in last week's blitz attack."

The Fox 'aah'ed in understanding.

"A mother died the other day and we've got three new orphans running around. Two men are in critical condition, and I'm swamped!" Molly half-wailed her distress.

The Fox patted her head gently. "Take a break, Molly." he told her. "You look like you could use some rest."

"But I-..."

"No 'but's!" The Fox insisted. "I'll take over for a bit. Just let me drop something off and I'll be right back."

Molly nodded weakly and stumbled off to find some flat, vertical surface to sleep on.

The Fox was not a doctor or a nurse legally, but everybody at the hospital knew him. He was a regular there. He was unemployed and, being in the middle of a war and all, he couldn't exactly find work.

He helped the people affected by the German blitz attacks, though. He learned basic first aid from Molly and sometimes drove Sally Donovan's ambulance through the wreckages when they were short on hands.

The 'location' was inside the hospital, somewhere where many faceless people wandered in and out of without suspicion. Working so close to the spot gave him good excuse to be there now.

He hid the parcel in the spot he knew Napoleon and Heinz would be instructed to look.

Then, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Do excuse our rudeness." he said to John.

"And the waste of your good time." Sherlock added reluctantly.

John stared at Anthea with a mixture of fear and respect as the petite woman rubbed her knuckles absently.

"Stray back off track and I will knock you two again." she warned sweetly.

Sherlock rubbed his head where her first blow landed, Mycroft was nursing the same spot on his own head. They looked like a pair of admonished children.

"Ahem, yes... well." Mycoft coughed. "The truth is, Doctor Watson, that we could really use your help in tracking down two German spies in England."

John's eyebrows rose. "Me?"

"Yes, you." Sherlock huffed. "Have you gone deaf?"

"Considering all the bombs and gunshots, I very well may have." John returned, voice tight.

Anthea glared at Sherlock and the younger man stood down.

"Ignore him." Mycroft sighed. "Our German spies, codenamed: Napoleon, and Heinz, have landed in Kent two nights ago."

"And, how am I to be of service?" John asked, confused.

"Our man, Heinz, was a sniper." Mycroft said with a pointed look.

John stared at him, then at Anthea, expression incredulous as he realized his relation to the whole matter. "Oh God, no." His right hand wandered absently to his shoulder.

"Please, Doctor Watson." Mycroft said in low tones. "Two policemen have already been killed by these two agents, another will never walk again."

"And last night," Anthea continued, "they blew up an aircraft factory in Hertfordshire."

John blew out a breath. "Surely you have agents especially trained for this sort of mission?"

Mycroft and Anthea exchanged glances. "Agent Napoleon knows how we work. Right now we don't need an agent on the chase, his movements will only be predicted." Mycroft gripped his umbrella handle. "No. What we need right now, is an unpredictable variable. An ace in the hole, so to speak."

"Don't bother making him feel too special." Sherlock drawled from the side. "It won't work on him."

"An admirable trait, I'm sure." Mycroft responded.

"It is, it means he might not listen to you all the time." Sherlock smirked back.

Anthea exhaled a huff of air on her knuckles pointedly and rubbed them on the palm of her other hand as if polishing them. The two Holmeses immediately fell silent.

Mycroft turned back to John. "We would be indebted to you if you would help us track Heinz and Agent Napoleon down."

John was silent. "Can I have some time to think about this?" he asked them.

Mycroft nodded. "Of course, Doctor Watson." He glanced at Anthea, next. "Anthea will set you up at some personal quarters. Do think about what we have discussed."

And with that, he walked out.

"Doctor Watson." Anthea called out, motioning him out of the room as well.

John turned to follow her and glanced back over his shoulder to see Sherlock staring at him from under his wild fringe, hands folded under his chin contemplatively.

His grey eyes looked solemn.

And then Anthea closed the door behind them, cutting him off from sight.

* * *

Three hours of sleep later, and John was back in the sitting room, Anthea in Mycroft's kitchen, brewing tea.

Sherlock had reverted to his prone position on the sofa in a coma-like state.

It was unnerving to watch him.

"There is a carton of cigarettes in the cupboard." Sherlock said suddenly, unmoving, not even opening his eyes. "Will you get them for me?"

John jumped. "Um, sure..." He got up and found the cigarettes and handed them to Sherlock, who had extended his hand, eyes closed, no movement wasted. "Oh, uh... lighter." He grabbed a lighter from his trouser pocket and handed it also to Sherlock.

Sherlock lit up, glanced at the lighter, and handed it back. "How is your brother?" he asked.

John stared at him. "What?"

"The signatures on the side of the lighter 'Harry W.' I can assume the 'W' stands for 'Watson'." Sherlock said.

"How can you be sure I didn't just lift it from one of the army boys?" John asked.

"Not this particular make or brand." Sherlock shook his head. "This is stylish and rather costly, not something one of the soldiers would take to the field. Harry Watson is also not your father, this brand is new, by two years, if I remember correctly. It's a young man's light."

"Maybe I got it from a friend before I was shipped out?" John suggested.

"Unlikely." Sherlock blew out a plume of smoke. "You keep it on you despite the wear and tear, also, you don't smoke so you would have no foreseeable reason to carry a lighter around in your pocket unless you had great sentimental ties to it."

"That scorch mark in the left hand corner..." John turned the lighter over in his hand. "It's been through a fire, probably why your brother decided to give it to you. A man of vanity like him wouldn't be caught dead walking around with something damaged like that."

John closed his fingers and held the lighter tightly in his fist. "You're wrong." he said.

Sherlock's eyes shifted to look at him. "Oh?"

"About Harry giving this damned thing to me because it was damaged." John said quietly. "I got it from the hospital after they had dragged Harry's body out of a blitz wreck. You asked me how my brother was, Mister Holmes? I don't have a brother. But my sister, Harriet, is dead."

Sherlock sucked in a breath. "I'm sorry." he said at length.

John got the feeling that Sherlock didn't apologize much. He tore his eyes away from his closed hand and looked at Sherlock. "After I got shot, I thought to myself that I've seen... too much. Too many injuries, violent deaths, enough for a lifetime... far too much. I wasn't even there for Harry when the bombs fell on London. I thought I'd had enough of this bloody war."

Sherlock remained silent, letting him talk.

John touched his shoulder again. Force of habit. "Turns out I didn't. I went back. I don't know..." he broke off with a sigh, shaking his head.

_... I don't know if I can do this again._

"It's just too much, far too much."

Sherlock glanced down at his toes, and then back up. "Want to see some more?" he spread the question out plainly.

_Yes, or no, Doctor Watson. Take your pick._

John raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's.

"Oh God, yes!"

Just then, Anthea walked back in with the tea.

Sherlock jumped up. "Wonderful! Just in time. It seems that Doctor Watson _will_ be staying with us for the time being, Anthea." he said.

Anthea looked John up and down once, then nodded in crisp satisfaction. "That is good news."

"Where's Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

"Out delegating a meeting." was the reply.

"Brilliant, make sure he doesn't come back." Sherlock grinned, winking at John.

John had to let out a laugh.

It was the first smile he cracked since he had gotten shot.

It felt good. It felt... _right_.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"Oi! Aiden!" Donovan shouted, jarring the Fox from his nap in a hard waiting room chair. "Need a hand over here!"

It took a split second for the Fox to realize that he was being addressed. No matter how long he had been using the alias, in his mind he had only one set name.

... Only, he had given up on it years ago.

He stretched and stood up. "Give me a sec!"

"No time!" Donovan hollered back.

"Alright, I'm coming!" the Fox ambled off after the ambulance driver. "What's going on?"

"Picked up the last of the blitz victims, they're coming in now." Donovan told him. "Molly said you were filling in?"

"That's what I'm here for." he replied.

He did not notice Agent Napoleon and Heinz slip into 'location' and sneak the parcel he had left, out.

And neither did they notice him.

* * *

"Agent Heinz is from Ireland, I think." John said when he, Sherlock, Mycroft, and Anthea gathered in Mycroft's office.

"You're sure of this?" Mycroft asked him piercingly.

John nodded. "Yup. We were hollering back and forth to each other when we were out of the line of fire. His accent was a mix of Killarney and something else, American, Maybe."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "If so, he must've either lived in the United States, or had an American parent. He must've left behind a trail somewhere..."

Anthea was already fairly lunging for the phone in a very poised, ladylike way.

"His marksmanship skills are-..." John blew out an admiring breath. "I mean, wow! Have you seen him in action?" Sherlock and Mycroft shook their heads. "Good. Believe me, you don't want to."

"I'll take your word on that, Doctor Watson." Mycroft said, deadpanned.

"He didn't even use a spotter." John shook his head. "_I_ was using a spotter... he died, a few hours into the fight. Bullet went straight through his binoculars when he lifted it to his head. Heinz must've reacted to the glint of sunlight off the glass, redirected his shot, gauged distance, temperature, and wind, and then squeezed off the shot in less than a second and a half."

"Sounds exhausting." Sherlock stated.

"Sounds impossible." John corrected. "I wouldn't have believed it, but I saw it."

Anthea then turned back to them. "Sir..." She motioned the receiver she was holding her hand over. "We may have something."

* * *

"Sebastian Moran." Mycroft read off the file. "Born to Irish-American parents, joined the military early on in life, was discharged on disorderly conduct, turned to a life of crime, got caught by the Germans and held as a political POW until he was recruited by the German Abwehr-..."

Here, John looked lost.

"German Intelligence." Sherlock whispered aside to him and the doctor nodded his understanding.

"... And trained as a saboteur." Mycroft glanced up briefly at the interruption but continued reading. "A year later, he proved himself to be a divinely skilled marksman and was put to good use on the frontlines, where our good Doctor Watson crossed paths with him."

John nodded again at the acknowledgement.

"He was later assigned to accompany Agent Napoleon on a cross European tour and the two haven't yet separated, much thanks to Agent Napoleon's insistence." Mycroft concluded.

"Has he ever lived in Britain since the Germans recruited him?" John asked.

"I believe so." Mycroft flipped through the file. "Ah, yes. Once before, he traveled to England to sink a ship. He stayed in our country for three months."

"He'd probably go back." John suggested.

"Get on familiar grounds." Sherlock nodded. "It's plausible."

"He also had a habit of leaving bits of his possessions in places where he'd sometimes come back to get them." John told them. "After I got shot, some of the boys investigated the places he had been and found little packs of food and water. Emergency rations that he failed to retrieve after his mission was done. He was quite the hoarder, I hear."

"If that's so, he might've left a few of his belongings in his previous living quarters where he could pick them up." Mycroft nodded to himself. "Anthea, get me any and all information on his address."

Anthea nodded and walked out.

* * *

Agent Napoleon sat boredly in an armchair as he watched his partner retrieve a small water-proofed parcel from behind a removable wall panel inside a small second floor flat.

The sniper opened the little bag and pulled out old documents and fake passports.

A glint of colour caught Napoleon's eye and he snatched the leather string the objects were tied together with. Heinz noticed his movement too late and reached for the scraps of coloured fibre at the same time.

He missed.

Napoleon drew back out of striking reach. "What's this, Heinz?" he asked.

"It's mine." Heinz replied flatly, holding out his hand, palm up. "Give them back."

Napoleon frowned and squinted at the two little hand stamped identity disks, dog-tags, they would later be called. "Moran. S. A. 562176..." Napoleon looked up. "You were in the military... _Moran?_"

Heinz let out a low growl in the back of his throat. Seeing as Heinz did not want to speak about it, Napoleon shrugged and tossed the dog-tags back.

Heinz held the bits of fibre in his palm for a moment, staring at them. Then, he let out a sigh. "Might as well call me Sebastian." he said at length.

"Well, Sebastian Moran, I am Jim." Napoleon held out his hand. "Jim Moriarty, hi!"

"You shouldn't just give out your name like that." Sebastian sighed.

Nevertheless, Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran shook hands.

"Well, why not?"

Sebastian stepped away and sat down by a window that overlooked the street below. "Because you just shouldn't." he said dryly.

"I don't see what the big deal is." Moriarty shrugged. "It's not like I was anybody back here. Don't have family, or anything."

"Still..." Sebastian trailed off, eyes narrowing, gaze on the street.

"I mean, if you wanted to protect someone, that's a different story..." Moriarty continued blabbering.

"Quiet..." Sebastian said warningly but Moriarty didn't hear him.

"Like parents, siblings, friends, lovers... dogs..." a contemplative look. "You probably had a dog, didn't you? You look like a man with a dog."

"Shh!" Sebastian hissed, drawing the curtain across the window and rising quickly. "Someone's out there!" He grabbed Moriarty by the arm and dragged him out of the room.

"And yes." He added as they jogged, "I did have a dog. German Shepherd. Some of the lads at base had a bit too much to drink one night and shot her up because she was 'German'. So I shot back at them... and then I got discharged." He shrugged. "I only heard later that they officially changed the name of German Shepherds to 'Alsatian Wolf Dogs' due to anti-German sentiment."

"Poor baby." Moriarty sympathized.

"Call me 'baby' again and I'll shoot you."

"You know I like it rough." Moriarty flirted, shooting exaggerated 'come hither' looks.

Sebastian smiled sharkishly and skipped the empty threats. "How do you feel about scaling rooftops, Mister Moriarty? Rough enough for you?"

Moriarty paled. "I'll break a nail." he protested. The best part was... he wasn't even joking or being sarcastic.

Sebastian smirked and pushed him toward a window at the end of a hall.

"You'll live."


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

"Right, that's the place." Anthea said as she and John peered up at Sebastian's former flat.

"Typical." John grunted. "High grounds, good visibility, and access to various escapeways." he noted aloud. "Sniper, through and through."

"He'd see us coming a mile away." Anthea remarked as the two disappeared behind a corner.

"I, for one, am counting on it." Sherlock said, suddenly appearing over John's shoulder like a shadow.

John jumped. "Jesus! Someone put a bell on you!"

Sherlock just quirked his lips a little in mild amusement. "I've spoken to Mycroft. Doctor Watson, you're with me."

John turned to follow. "Um, I'd suppose you can just call me 'John'. And where are we going?"

"Well then, Sherlock, I insist." Sherlock half turned and smiled. "And as to where we're going... We're going to get spotted by the sniper."

John blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Well, not me and you... Mycroft and Anthea, on the other hand." Sherlock led the way through narrow back alleys, up a rusted fire escape, and onto the roofs.

Mycroft and Anthea waited for them to get into position before they rounded the corner, letting Sebastian catch sight of them blatantly watching the flat.

A minute or two later, Agents Napoleon and Heinz darted out onto the tiled roofs.

"Sebby, you bastard!" the shorter man snarled to his partner. "Now look what you've done! My suit's a mess!"

"Live with it, Moriarty!" the taller blonde grumbled back.

In a flash, Sherlock was gone from John's side and tackled Moriarty, sending them both sprawling and tumbling precariously toward the edge of the roof.

Sebastian lunged after them at the same time a piercing gunshot sounded.

He whipped his head around and saw John. The two soldiers' eyes met and held. John froze under the sniper's chilly grey eyes and felt the prickly sensation of crosshairs locking onto his forehead directly between his eyes.

Then Sebastian was gone, grabbing Moriarty by his ruffled coat collar and darting around a chimney, avoiding John's delayed shots.

Sherlock and John sat and stood stunned on the roof, Mycroft calling out to them from the street.

Sherlock looked over to John and saw the army doctor's eyes were wide and terrified, his legs shaking just the slightest, his lips twitching and mumbling incoherent lines of babble as he stared across the empty roofs as if at any moment expecting Sebastian to double back with his sniper rifle.

Sherlock laid a hesitant hand on John's shoulder and the doctor's head whipped around to look at him.

"Doctor Watson." Sherlock said quietly. "John."

That seemed to be the magic word that snapped John out of his trance. He blinked and stumbled backward a foot or two. He lowered his gun and blew out a breath. "Christ..." His legs gave out from under him and he quickly sat down. "Jesus." He wiped a hand over his clammy forehead. "I wasn't remotely ready for that." he admitted reluctantly.

Sherlock remained quiet, waiting for him to tell him whether he had reconsidered the idea of continuing the hunt with them.

John took a few big breaths and let them out. Then he shook his head self-deprecatingly. "Well... that could've gone better."

Sherlock smiled. John snorted out a laugh in response.

Sherlock gave the doctor five minutes more to collect himself before they returned to Mycroft and Anthea.

* * *

_"Hee, ha ha ha! Heh."_ Moriarty giggled as Sebastian more or less dragged him along.

"For God's sakes!" Sebastian hissed, slightly taken aback by the sudden laughter. "What now?"

"Did you see that man in the street? Did you see him?" Moriarty continued, letting out light, fluttery noises of helpless glee.

Sebastian nodded. "I saw him."

"Do you know who he is?" Moriarty asked him next.

Sebastian shook his head.

"That was Mycroft Holmes." Moriarty said, eyes glistening. "_The_ Mycroft Holmes, you understand? The tenacious dog of MI6, His Majesty's _Hound!_ Hee hee!"

"I know the name." Sebastian offered.

"Oh, we'll have to be careful." Moriarty leaned his hands on his knees as they paused to catch their breath. "He'll snap us up like crocodile food if we're not wary. He's one of the ones worth opposing." Moriarty rubbed his hands together. "If the British Intelligence is like an impenetrable wall that you cannot win against, then Mycroft Holmes is the type of wall that tends to fight back."

"He's one of MI6's most ruthless." Sebastian hummed.

"He's cold-hearted. Like ice." Moriarty agreed with a smirk. "The Iceman."

Sebastian slid his hand over the disassembled sniper rifle in his bag and thought about that little Englishman on the roof.

He smiled sharkishly, like a predator sizing up meat.

He was at least glad that Moriarty wasn't the only one who had found a worthy opponent.

* * *

**NEXT OBJECTIVE. ASSASSINATE MYCROFT HOLMES OF MI6. CAUTION IS ADVISED.**

The Fox stumbled into his flat after a long day's work at the hospital and decrypted the message. He groaned and dropped his head in his hands.

"Bollocks."

He cleaned up, washed, and collapsed into bed.

He could worry about this Mycroft Holmes fellow in just a moment. Right now, he needed rest.

The Queen and Country be damned.

* * *

"We'll get our hands on him next time, Sir." Anthea said in a flat tone what was meant to be encouraging.

Mycroft took heart that the woman had tried at all. "Thank you, Anthea."

Sherlock was sulking on his sitting room sofa again, curled up into a ball of dressing gown facing away from the world, bare feet tucked neatly under him, arms wrapped loosely around his knees.

He hadn't spoken for hours.

John was sitting in an armchair nearby and sipping tea, already seemingly used to the sight. Bless the man.

For a long time, nobody spoke.

"Moran referred to Agent Napoleon as 'Moriarty'." John was the first to break the silence as he bit into a scone.

"I will have Anthea investigate." Mycroft told him with a slight twitch of a smile at his well meant attempt to be helpful.

"Irish accent." Sherlock chimed in, not turning. "Vain. Shallow. Bit of a fashionista. Not accustomed to much manual labor and entirely psychotic." Mycroft raised his eyebrow and Sherlock finally turned his head. "He started giggling madly when he saw you, for some reason." Then, he turned back and continued sulking.

"I will put out word on the street for these two." Mycroft assured the two of them. "But until we receive more news, we have nothing."

John frowned and sipped his tea. Mycroft tapped his fingers on his umbrella handle. Sherlock sulked.

Anthea went along her business as she always did.

* * *

A/N: I wanted Moriarty to throw a fit and say 'Sebby, you bastard! Now look what you've done! I'm a mess! This suit is _Westwood!'_ but I realized with heavy heart that there would be no Vivienne Westwood suits during World War II. TT_TT


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

The Fox tracked the man behind the name of 'Mycroft Holmes' to Camp 020, Latchmere House, South London.

Camp 020 was infamous to men of the Fox's occupation as being a British interrogation centre for captured German agents, run by Lieutenant Colonel Robin 'Tin Eye' Stephens.

Mycroft Holmes was only a step down in the hierarchy, but a mile up in terms of unspoken power. Impressive, for a man of his age.

So here the Fox was. A German spy, spying on a British interrogation centre that specialized in torturing and extracting information from German spies.

Lovely job he had.

On the second day of his stakeout, he caught his first glimpse of Mycroft Holmes.

"Hello, handsome." he smirked to himself aloud as he watched Mycroft step out of his car and stride purposefully into Camp 020.

Just a moment before he entered into the building, Mycroft lingered in the doorway and glanced around but didn't see him.

The Fox took that moment to study the man's face from a distance.

Dark copper hair, blue eyes, a pinched expression that somehow managed to constantly look both disdainful and imperious. And then there was his umbrella...

The Fox glanced up at the brilliant blue sky. Not a cloud in sight.

_Huh, odd man._ He lifted his hands and snapped a picture of the British spymaster with his camera.

Then, Mycroft turned and disappeared into the building.

The Fox lowered his camera.

_Mycroft Holmes, who are you?_

* * *

Moriarty was sitting by the fire in the new flat Sebastian had secured for them. He had his book of Grimm's Fairytales open on his lap.

Sebastian watched him read for a moment or two before interrupting him. "Good reading?" he asked.

Moriarty didn't look up from his page. "Mhm."

"Bit odd, isn't it? That the Germans would go through the trouble of getting a book of fairytales into England." the sniper hinted.

Moriarty looked up finally. "Sebby." he said patiently. "I read, you shoot. Okay?"

Sebastian raised his eyebrows. "'Sebby'?"

"Yes." Moriarty said flatly with a look that said defy-me-and-I'll-_skin_-you.

Sebastian and Moriarty stared each other down. Then, Sebastian rolled his eyes and sprawled himself on the couch. "Whatever, you stubborn shit."

They remained in silence for a few hours, Moriarty reading, and Sebastian cleaning his handgun.

"It's a code." Moriarty said at length.

"What is?" Sebastian asked, before belatedly realizing that Moriarty was talking about his Grimm's Fairytales.

"A wonderful German editor fixed it up for the Abwehr. It's a list of British Intelligence agents that they want us to take care of." Moriarty explained. Then, he pointed at Sebastian. "I read, you shoot." he said a second time.

Sebastian nodded his understanding.

"Alright. Who's first?"

* * *

Mycroft spent the next day held hostage by a social event, one of the Holmes's long standing family friends were throwing a birthday party and Mycroft had been in attendance.

After he had made all the obligatory rounds of greetings and congratulations, he had found himself at the bar with a drink.

An attractive gentleman with silvery hair, chocolate brown eyes, a smart waistcoat, and shirtsleeves that were rolled up to his elbows, slid neatly into the narrow space between Mycroft and another patron of the bar, close enough to brush arms with him, but not close enough to make him very uncomfortable.

The man ordered a beer and turned toward Mycroft with a smile.

Mycroft caught his glance, slightly surprised at his choice of drink, and smiled back politely.

"Everybody always has that sort of expression when I order a beer at a high-classed bar." the stranger said with a rueful smile. "But, well, if you're going to drink, you might as well get something you'd enjoy, correct?"

Mycroft nodded. "I'm sure so."

The man gave a lopsided grin that was easy-going and natural, somehow out of place in the tight-collared society event. "I'm Sholto Grayson." the handsome man introduced himself, holding out his hand.

Mycroft shook it. "Mycroft Holmes. Are you a friend of the birthday celebrant?" he asked conversationally.

"Oh,_ 'celebrant'._..!" Grayson smiled as his drink arrived, easily deflecting the question. "Your wording is delightful, I've never known anyone who injects words like that into conversation so naturally without sounding pretentious." Grayson let out a slightly bashful chuckle. "You must forgive my enthusiasm, Mister Holmes, I am a humble journalist and as such quite inexperienced in such high-class events."

Mycroft just smiled, noting that Grayson had not answered his question. "I had no idea Bethany was one to talk to journalists, she does avoid the eye of the public so."

"Oh, believe me Mister Holmes, if she and I met each other face-to-face here and now, she would never - even on pain of death - admit to knowing me." Grayson winked.

Mycroft chuckled.

"Enjoying the party?" Grayson asked him politely after a careful sip of beer.

"Quite." Mycroft lied fluidly. "It has been so long since I've seen everybody." Now _that_ was the truth.

Just then, another guest wormed up to the bar behind Mycroft, forcing the younger man to step closer to Grayson, who was blocked also on his side.

"Oh, excuse me." Mycroft blustered slightly, now realizing that they were close enough for their knees to bump against each other and for their feet to be in danger of being stepped on if one or both of them shifted even the slightest bit.

Grayson tried to step back to give him room, bumped into the man behind him and immediately spewed out a flustered string of apologies.

"Well then..." Grayson smiled, slightly brittle but still charming, turning back. "... coming my way?" he tried to make light of the... _tight_ situation.

Mycroft had not been expecting that and burst into startled laughter.

It took him more by surprise than it did Grayson. Mycroft Holmes was not one to laugh so unguardedly.

Mycroft cleared his throat, covering his mouth with his hand. "Excuse me."

Grayson shook his head with a smile of a man who was holding back his own laughter. "I'm the one who should say sorry. That was inappropriate of me."

Mycroft felt a slight heat in his face. "You took me by surprise, is all."

Grayson tapped his fingers on the bar. "Well, I feel like I should apologize. Let me buy you another drink."

Mycroft only then noticed that his drink was nearly gone. "Then, I shall accept your generous offer."

Grayson gestured for another drink to be brought over and handed it to Mycroft, their fingers brushing softly as the glass exchanged hands and causing a sharp thrill to course through Mycroft's spine. "Cheers then, mate." he said, glancing the neck of his beer bottle against Mycroft's glass. "See you around."

And he was sauntering off into the crowd with a backward wave.

Mycroft watched him go, thought back to the charming man's joke, blushed, and shook his head as if to clear it. Then he lifted his glass...

"Excuse me. Sorry!" Another guest exclaimed when he bumped into Mycroft, spilling the man's drink. "Jesus, sorry mate!"

Mycroft watched champagne run down the length of his trousered leg and grimaced. "That's alright." he sighed.

He made for the exit, he was done for the day, he decided. The spill only served as a plausible excuse to escape. He said goodbye to the hostess and walked out.

Outside in the front yard as Mycroft waited for his car to pick him up, one of the guest's dogs ambled over to him and lapped cheerfully at his stained ankle.

"Go away old boy." Mycroft grumbled gently shaking the canine off. "Champagne isn't for you."

Suddenly, the dog crouched down on its front legs, letting out the most horrible whimpers and keenings.

Mycroft bent down, slightly concerned. "What is it boy? What's wrong?"

The unhappy dog let out one more whimper and died quite suddenly.

Mycroft stared in shock until his driver arrived. "Sir?" the elderly man asked.

Mycroft snapped out of his trance and darted back into the party in search of the charming 'Mister Grayson'.

But he was long gone.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Typical." Sherlock sniffed at the turn-ups of Mycroft's ruined trousers after Mycroft had changed out of them. "Poison in the drink. Mycroft, I should have thought that you would know better than to accept drinks from strangers by now."

Mycroft looked irked but said nothing.

"Oh, stop tormenting the man!" John groaned from his seat after hearing Sherlock scoff, reprimand, and taunt the spymaster's mistake for the last ten minutes. "Anybody could make mistakes."

Sherlock snorted. "Not Mycroft." he shook his head. "Mycroft wouldn't make such a novice mistake like this, it must've taken a great-..." Suddenly, he cut himself off and whipped his head around to stare at Mycroft incredulously, wide-eyed.

Mycroft pointedly avoided eye contact.

"Oh, dear Lord." Sherlock breathed, half astounded, half disgusted at his present thought.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft growled warningly.

"What?" John asked, looking from one Holmes to the other. "What am I missing?"

"Oh, only you could accept drinks from the_ one_ man who tries to poison you!" Sherlock crowed gleefully.

Mycroft rolled his eyes Heavenward and inwardly prayed for strength.

"What?" John asked, still confused.

"_He-.._." Sherlock leaped off his sofa and jabbed a judgmental finger in his brother's direction. "... is enamored by his assassin!"

"Oh for God's sakes, Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed, mortified. "I was only trying to be polite!"

"Mycroft Holmes? Polite?" Sherlock smirked. "Oh, that'll be the day."

"I'm plenty polite." Mycroft returned imperiously. "It fails only in your face. Your rudeness overpowers all else."

"Alright, alright..." John raised his hands to calm the two. "Mycroft, can you give me a few descriptions of this man? Maybe we can get Anthea to ask around about him."

Mycroft huffed out a breath and broke eye contact with his brother. "Five foot ten, brown eyes, silver hair, callouses on his hands, faint hint of Somerset in his accent, mud on his shoes, I believe, from Central London... on-site of last week's bombings, I'll hazard."

Sherlock smiled. "Didn't peg a working man as to your inclinations."

"Didn't see medical men as yours." Mycroft returned coolly.

John, who was busy noting down Mycroft's description on a piece of paper, didn't even hear them.

Sherlock glanced briefly at John, confirmed that he had heard nothing, and proceeded to glare all holy Hell at Mycroft. Mycroft simply inclined his head and smiled innocently back at him.

"Um, did he give a name?" John asked, finally looking up, unaware of the silent battle that had been raging right over his head. "Any name at all?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Sholto." he replied. "Sholto Grayson."

"Ah..." Sherlock made a thoughtful noise under his breath.

Mycroft and John exchanged puzzled glances. "Do you know him?"

"Hm... journalist?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, he did mention it." Mycroft nodded slowly.

"Sholto Grayson does in fact exist... however, it is to my knowledge that he died a few months ago." Sherlock shrugged. "It would've been easy as anything for our man to pick up a few credentials, or forge them if he knew the real Sholto Grayson personally."

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully. "I'll ask Anthea to track down 'Sholto Grayson's last known residence. We may start our investigation from there."

Just then, Anthea walked in.

"Ah, Anthea!" Mycroft greeted cheerfully. "Do excuse us, but we have one or two small errands for you to run."

Anthea's replying look was grim. "Perhaps it can wait for a minute. We've got bad news."

"Oh?"

"One of our agents have been assassinated."

* * *

"Looks like a professional hit." Inspector Dimmock told Mycroft when he and the rest of the group visited the morgue at St. Bart's. "Single gunshot wound straight through the forehead from a sniper rifle, I believe."

"Do you know where the shot was fired from?" Sherlock asked brusquely.

"Well, we estimated the height and distance of the shot but..." Dimmock trailed off helplessly.

"You were highly skeptical of whether a shot from that distance could be made as accurately as it had been?" John finished for him as he examined a map of London and pointed out the spot where Dimmock and his men had calculated the impossible sniping position to be. "Don't worry, it's possible."

"Can't be." Dimmock protested. "I've consulted our best sniper and he confirms that it can't be done."

John raised an eyebrow and looked the copper straight in the eye. "Do you want me to prove it?" Dimmock paused at that. "I'll even make the shot with a handgun." John bluffed, knowing that Dimmock wouldn't call him out on it on his confidence alone.

Sherlock smiled at the little army doctor.

Mycroft stepped aside with Anthea. "Anderson was stationed in Czechoslovakia. As far as we know, neither Heinz nor Napoleon have ever crossed paths with him." Anthea whispered.

"Why was he killed?" Mycroft wondered quietly. "He was not undergoing any mission at the time of his death. His train out into the field was cancelled due to-..." he trailed off, realizing. "... the sabotage and ruin of the train track the night before. They knew he would be on that train and needed to prevent him from leaving."

"Perhaps the Germans are simply trying to take out as many pawns in our game of chess before the real gambit begins." Anthea hummed back.

"But why now? And in preparation for what?"

Neither of the two spooks had an answer for that one.

Just then, the door opened and Molly walked in, accompanied by the Fox, who was carrying a rather heavy-looking box for the petite woman.

"... as I've said; you just can't trust men like that!" The Fox laughed, telling some amusing anecdote to his nurse friend.

He turned his head away from Molly and caught Mycroft's stunned gaze.

They both froze like deer in headlights.

Mycroft recovered first. "And you'd know about untrustworthy men." he quipped.

"Oh, _shit_...!" The Fox dropped the box he was carrying with a loud crash. Then he turned, and ran.

"Who-...?" John's question was immediately cut off by Mycroft and Sherlock both lunging for the door, leaping over the dropped box in the doorway.

"That's him! That's Grayson!" Mycroft called over his shoulder as he ran. Sherlock was already gaining ground on the fleeing man with his enormously long legs.

Then, the Fox brushed past Donovan, startling the paramedic, and careened around a corner. Sherlock and Mycroft followed, causing Donovan to loose her footing and clipboard, but halted when they rounded the bend.

The Fox was gone.

"Excuse me!" Donovan stalked up to them, angry at the chaos their brief chase had caused in the already eventful hospital. "Who are you?"

"I am Mycroft Holmes of His Majesty's Secret Service." Mycroft smoothed his suit down and introduced himself. "And this is my brother. We were chasing a very dangerous assassin, suspected of being a German agent."

"What do you mean?" Donovan asked, incredulous. "You mean Aiden?" Molly, Dimmock, Anthea, and John now joined them, having caught up. "You're joking, right? Everybody here knows him! He's no assassin, he wouldn't hurt a fly!"

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged glances. "Excuse me, if you all wouldn't mind sharing a bit of your time, would you please answer some questions about that man?"

Molly, Donovan, and Dimmock looked uneasy.

"Sorry. I'm busy." Donovan stated boldly. "I have an ambulance to drive now that I haven't anyone to switch with." And she stalked off.

"I just remembered that I have to go-..." Molly fluttered uncomfortably. "... somewhere." And she fled.

Dimmock looked like he wanted to follow their example, but stayed put. "I'm a copper." he shrugged helplessly. "If His Majesty says 'jump', I can only ask 'how high?'"

Outside the hospital, the Fox ran and he didn't look back.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

"I don't get it." John was the first to say after a full day of asking around the hospital about the Fox. "This man, Grayson, or Aiden, whoever he is, everybody says he's a good person without any question of a doubt. He goes out there into the city and pulls people out of blitz wrecks, drives an ambulance all day, wraps patients' bandages all night, takes care of these people without being payed, or anything... I don't know, it just doesn't sound like they're describing a killer or traitor to me."

"You forget that spies are masters of deceit." Mycroft responded rationally. "They send out the message that they are someone who can be trusted."

"Well, we know he's good enough to make a certain spymaster trust him enough to share a drink with him." Sherlock threw out.

Mycroft just glared back.

"Do we know where he lives?" John asked, breezing over the sibling squabble.

"One of the patients said he mentioned Soho." Anthea replied.

"Patients..." John grumbled under his breath. "God, he even takes time to talk to his patients. He should've become a doctor, not a spy. I feel like a bad guy now, chasing down these people's hero."

"He's no hero." Mycroft snapped back.

"Don't make people into heroes, John." Sherlock said. "It's silly."

"Tell that to the hospital children." Anthea rolled her eyes.

"Children?" John asked, immediately concerned.

"Orphans, got nowhere to go." Anthea shrugged. "Molly says they just loiter around. The Fox had been setting up a sort of communications relay so that kids on one end of the hospital could call a nurse on the other end to attend a patient. Keeps them occupied so as not to make trouble."

"Tell me you don't feel like the villain." John repeated his sentiment.

"I guess it is possible for a man like him to be a German agent." Mycroft shrugged. "Good men doing bad things, and all."

"I just can't see it." John shook his head sadly. "I mean, how did he fall in with the Germans?"

Mycroft and Anthea exchanged glances.

_Good question._

* * *

They ran into the Fox a day later at the pub under his flat, the Blue Piano. Agent Fuchs was not apprehended. Dimmock twisted his ankle and the Fox felt a little sorry for it.

He hadn't expected his flat to be invaded so soon.

This game of cat and mouse had to end.

* * *

That night, after everyone had fallen asleep in Mycroft's home, a knife was wedged along the lock of a back window and jimmied open. The window slid open silently and a man in tight-fitting black clothes slipped in, the gentle 'tap' of his soft-soled boots barely audible even to the man who made the noise.

He crouched out of the moonlight and stuck to the shadows, slinking through the halls and up the stairs, past two guestrooms and slipped into the master bedroom.

He angled himself through the door and silently nudged it shut, leaving just a crack open for a silent getaway. He glided almost weightlessly over the Turkish carpet and unsheathed a long, slender, needle-like stiletto from the near invisible black sheath strapped to his left forearm.

He approached the bed warily, every silent step a battle, every exhale that did not wake Mycroft Holmes was a war half won.

The Fox held his stiletto at the ready as he pinched the nearest corner of the duvet, turning the covers neatly down...

... Only to uncover a deceptive collection of soft pillows.

There was a sharp 'click' from the shadows. "I wouldn't move, if I were you." Mycroft said to him, stepping out of the shadows, gun trained on the intruder's head.

The Fox tensed, every defined muscle under black clothes coiled like a lithe cat ready to pounce. Then, with great effort, the man relaxed, raising his hands to head level, slowly turning from the bed to face Mycroft.

"Drop your weapon." Mycroft ordered brusquely.

The Fox extended his hand a few inches away from his head and the blade slid through his gloved fingers onto the bed. Behind the black cloth mask covering his mouth and nose, his expression was almost entirely unreadable.

Mycroft took a few steps nearer to him...

The moment Mycroft was in reach, the Fox's hand snapped out, slapping the gun aside, discharging it into the window. The assassin struck a second time, knocking the gun out of Mycroft's hands before he ran toward the shattered window, clearly intending to jump out.

Until he saw Sherlock standing under it.

There was a muffled curse under the mask and the Fox whirled around, darting for the door.

**_Bang!_**

The poor Fox skidded to a crouching halt in the middle of the room, arms brought up defensively to cover his head as splinters exploded off the thick wood. The door was nudged the rest of the way open and John walked in, gun expertly trained on the Fox.

He was trapped.

"Don't move, Mister Grayson, or Aiden, whatever you wish to call yourself." Mycroft said solemnly. "Or you will be shot down on sight. This is your only warning."

The Fox stood slowly, liquidly from his crouch, lowering his arms.

"Oh, please don't." Mycroft said, picking his gun up from where it had fallen.

The Fox raised his hands again reluctantly.

Mycroft put his gun down on a desk and walked toward him slowly, careful as to remain out of John's way as he reached out, pulling the black mask away from the Fox's face. The Fox's entrancing brown eyes watched him intently as he did so.

The black cloth dropped from Mycroft's fingers and pooled around the Fox's neck. He was as handsome as Mycroft remembered him being.

"Mister Grayson." Mycroft greeted tonelessly.

"Mister Holmes." The Fox replied with just as much emotion.

"Or is it Aiden?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Which would you prefer?" The Fox responded smoothly.

They were standing close to each other now, much like they had when they first met. It was certainly closer than Mycroft had ever gotten to any of his other enemies.

John coughed uncomfortably.

That seemed to diffuse the moment. Mycroft turned and walked toward John, flicking on the light switch, flooding the room with light.

The Fox flinched a little at the sudden brightness.

John, seeing the Fox properly for the first time, took the moment to study him. He was good-looking, if a bit rugged, looked like one of those boys who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks and got into trouble early on in life. There was a small scar on the underside of his jaw that was rather unnoticeable if one wasn't looking too closely. His greying hair glinted silver in the light.

He could understand Mycroft's attraction to the Silver Fox.

Mycroft produced a pair of handcuffs and neared the Fox again. "If you will please." he said.

The Fox slowly turned his back toward them, extending both his arms out wide sideways. "Pleasure." he responded. "Although, I should tell you that I don't usually do this sort of thing on first dates." he smirked wryly.

John nearly swallowed his tongue.

"Oh, and I suppose you save the first dates for sneaking into other men's bedrooms?" Mycroft replied sarcastically, half a hint of a flirt in his undertones.

Now John really did choke on his tongue.

"_You_ waited up for me." The Fox shrugged with a slight upward twitch of his lips as Mycroft snapped the hand cuffs first on his right hand, then brought both hands behind his back slowly and secured his left.

Mycroft jingled the cuffs a little and tugged them to get the Fox to move toward the door.

The Fox smirked a little. "Now, now, Mister Holmes." he said admonishingly as Mycroft took his elbow and steered him out of his room and down the stairs, hall, and into the sitting room. "No need to get rough, I expect you to wine and dine me first."

"The only date you're getting is at an interrogation cell." Mycroft said stoically.

"Oh, Mister Holmes!" The Fox raised his eyebrows and leered. "How bold of you."

Mycroft indulged in a little smile. "So, Mister Grayson..." he said. "Coming my way?"

John was surprised at the warm, melodious laugh the Fox let out.

"It seems I am, Mister Holmes." the German agent said. "It seems I am."


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

"Mister Holmes." Robin 'Tin Eye' Stephens greeted solemnly the next morning, his steel-rimmed monocle glinting in the light.

Mycroft and Anthea had taken the Fox down to Camp 020 minutes after his capture and left him there to Stephens' tender hospitality until morning before doubling back with John and Sherlock.

"I would like to see our prisoner." Mycroft said before turning to Sherlock. "This is my younger brother. He will be leading the interrogation in my stead."

Stephens looked like he wanted to object at that point, but Mycroft's gaze stopped him. "I suppose." he sighed.

The gang entered a side room on the dark side of a two-way mirror adjacent to an interrogation cell.

Inside the cell sat the Fox, sitting on an uncomfortable metal chair, hands cuffed to a steel loop on the underside of the table in front of him.

The German agent stared blankly at the opposite wall, unmoving, barely even breathing.

"He's been acting that way since he got in." Stephens remarked. "Bloody unnerving, I say. Like he's in a waking coma. Hasn't eaten, drank, moved, or spoken yet." He bit on a cigarette that he lit up. "I'd like to see this brother of yours make him talk."

John was the first to notice a blackening bruise on the side of the prisoner's face, a finger bent unnaturally, and a spot of blood on his lip. "Excuse me, Sir..." he pointed. "What happened to him?"

Stephens shrugged. "Like I said, he hasn't been talking."

Mycroft didn't need to inform their group that beatings and occasional torture were used as acceptable modes of extracting intelligence from spies.

John glanced worriedly at Mycroft for a split second before looking away. Mycroft did not look at him, but he saw the action in the reflection of the window.

A bloody bad idea about the torture. That would only harden the Fox's defenses.

"Sherlock." he said to his brother.

Sherlock nodded grimly and left the room. Seconds later, a guard unlocked the steel door of the Fox's cell and Sherlock walked in.

Sherlock looked at the glass, not seeing them, as if testing what the Fox would be feeling, knowing he was being watched by invisible eyes.

Then, he walked around the table and sat down in the seat opposite the prisoner. The Fox's gaze never wavered and stayed glued to a point on the drab grey wall directly over Sherlock's right shoulder.

"Mister Sholto Grayson?" Sherlock said.

No response.

"Aiden."

Still nothing.

Sherlock shuffled through a file he had brought in the room with him. It was a psychological tactic, the British Intelligence had little to no solid information on the Fox.

The file was blank.

Nonetheless, Sherlock sifted through the pages as if he had the Fox's life spread out at his fingertips. "How old are you?" he asked suddenly.

That question seemed to catch the Fox off guard. None of his other interrogators felt that information was relevant. The Fox betrayed a blink.

Sherlock leaned back in his seat, tapping a finger contemplatively on the surface of the metal table between them. "Let me guess, mid forties?"

This time, there was no response.

"That man you tried to kill, do you know who he is?" Sherlock asked him.

Nothing. It seemed Stephens' men had fully dulled the Fox to that question already.

"A few nights ago, you sabotaged a supply train." a statement, not a question. "Do you know how many people died?"

The Fox remained impassive.

"Only a handful of men." Sherlock shrugged. "But the soldiers on the frontline, waiting for their supplies? The MI6 agent who was to be on the next train out? They're dead."

The Fox's lip slowly curled back into a sneer but he said nothing.

Sherlock suddenly leaned forward, slamming his hands down loudly on the table, shoving his face up close to the Fox's. "How many died in last week's blitz?"

The Fox's gaze snapped onto Sherlock's face, eyes betraying surprise, and the man instinctively jerked back.

Sherlock smirked. The Fox bared his teeth.

But he had looked at Sherlock. Acknowledged his existence. That was more of a reaction than Stephens' violent interrogators got the whole previous night.

The Fox turned his head sideways and looked at the two-way glass. Then he turned back straight and resumed staring at the wall.

"How many people?" Sherlock asked again.

But now the Fox's eyes were clouded over, mind locked away behind heavy doors. He would be difficult to make him speak again for a long time.

Sherlock stood up and glanced at the two-way mirror. Then, he rounded the table to get to the door. He paused, hand on the door handle, and walked back for one last attempt.

He bent down and whispered in the Fox's ear quietly so that he was not overheard. "The man who governs the men that interrogated you last night, Robin Stephens, I heard him giving out orders for various staff members of St. Bart's to be brought in and questioned if you did not give him good information." he lied. "He seems convinced that someone close to you must know something."

Still, the Fox gave no response, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptively.

Sherlock grimaced "I'm only telling you this because I hope it will not come to that." he said, tracing the edge of the Fox's discoloured cheekbone with his fingertip. "It may be... _Molly_ in this chair tomorrow."

Then, he straightened. "Think about it." He said out loud and turned to walk out.

The guard at the door opened the door for the Holmes when the Fox called out. "Four died in the blitz. Ten injured, and damn you, we're short-staffed as it is." he said solidly, not even turning to see if Sherlock had stayed to hear him.

Sherlock smiled. "I'll have someone bring you back a coffee." And the guard closed the door behind him, locking it with a loud clank.

Sherlock reentered the side room.

"That was brilliant!" John said, amazed. "How did you get him to talk?"

Sherlock leveled stern looks to both Mycroft and Stephens. "Ironically, I appealed to his patriotism." he replied.

The rest of the room was stunned.

_"What?"_

"I told him to cooperate. Save Molly and the rest of the hospital staff from... _interrogations_." Sherlock sneered at Stephens.

"How the Hell'd you know that would work?" Stephens snapped back, lighting a second smoke.

"I didn't." Sherlock shrugged back at him. "I trusted that he'd think ill of you, Sir." Stephens froze, mid-light, and glared mightily. "I implied that you might arrange for the interrogation of innocents and he seemed to not want to take the chances of my telling the truth."

"That's quite enough, Sherlock." John held up a hand to prevent Stephens and Sherlock from saying anything more.

Mycroft looked thoughtful. "Well, brother dear, I believe the man was promised a cup of coffee."

He took the steaming paper cup Anthea offered and walked out of the room.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

The Fox's eyes were heavy and tired when Mycroft walked in. It was like something in him had died when he agreed to cooperate and the fight just bled out of him in massive hemorrhages. His wrists hung limp in their cuffs, his body slumped against the metal chair, chest rising and falling shallowly as he breathed.

Mycroft paused in the doorway and watched him for a moment. "You know," he said at length, "you should give us a name to work with. It is rather tedious to revert to aliases."

The Fox's head inclined slightly when Mycroft spoke, like he was pressing it into the invisible caress of his voice. "I would, but I'm not that man." he said hollowly.

"Then, who are you?" Mycroft asked him, walking over and placing the paper cup of coffee on the table in front of the Fox.

"Der Fuchs." the Fox replied. "You'll need to unlock these." he jangled his cuffs a little.

Mycroft unlocked his left hand and left the cuff on his right. The Fox grabbed the cup and sipped slowly.

Mycroft sat down in the seat opposite him. "Tell me, der Fuchs, how did you come about to work for the Germans?"

The Fox paused mid sip and lowered his cup. "I was in Fort de Romainville." he replied brusquely. "The German concentration camp on the outskirts of Paris, German occupied France." He shrugged. "Naturally, I wanted out. The Abwehr gave me that escape."

"And you accepted their terms of agreement." Mycroft said.

The Fox smirked humorlessly. "That I did."

"Can you give me the name of the German agent who spoke to you in Romainville?" Mycroft asked.

"Irene Adler." the Fox told him. "A lovely woman, really very beautiful. A tinge of American, I think. She had black hair, an attractive face, and the most seductively red lips." he drawled with a look that asked Mycroft 'do I_ look_ like I know her from Adam?'

Mycroft thought on that for a moment or two. "You must've done something to garner the Abwehr's attention. They don't make a habit of recruiting every Englishman they come across."

A muscle worked in the Fox's jaw. "I - um - I tried to escape Romainville." he replied, a tad sheepish. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Well, obviously I didn't succeed. Captain von Groning, head of the Abwehr stationed in Paris, heard of the pathetic attempt and had Adler come talk to me. He said that if I wanted to leave so badly, he was willing to make me an offer. One that I did not refuse."

"And then what happened?" Mycroft encouraged.

"And then I was brought to the Abwehr station outside Paris, La Bretonniere, and educated on various skills they thought I would need." Lestrade shrugged. "Explosives training, radio communications, parachute jumping, German, French... other such studies."

"Am I to assume they gave you a radio to communicate with?" Mycroft asked.

Lestrade nodded. "It's in my closet, under my clothes, in the flat I live in."

Mycroft asked him for the address and Lestrade gave it to him easily.

They continued the questioning for hours. The Fox humored Mycroft's questions and answered them concisely, Mycroft allowed them a break and brought him lunch.

They did not stop talking about the Fox's exploits under German control until Anthea interrupted them softly with news of another assassinated agent. "Raz is dead, Sir." was all she said before disappearing again.

"I will make arrangements for you to be transferred to another building." Mycroft told the Fox when he left. "Thank you for your cooperation."

The German agent just waved back tentatively.

* * *

The new flat was situated in Central London, 221 Baker Street. There were two flats open, one on the second floor where Sherlock and John moved into, and another directly beside it - 221c - where Mycroft, the Fox, and Anthea moved into.

The landlady, Mrs. Turner, was an old lady with one grown child who served in the war, and rarely moved from her rocker. Mycroft immediately bought the land from her and put it in the very capable hands of Mrs. Hudson from Bletchley Park.

Before they moved in, Mycroft had men install security measures, heavy locks on the doors, bars on the windows of 221c, and floorboards that squeaked deliberately when pressure was applied.

Anyone in 221c would know where everyone was.

There were two additional MI6 agents that lived in a flat directly across the street for back up, not that Mycroft thought they needed it between the five of them guarding their one prisoner.

The Fox took all this change in stride.

He sat quietly on the bed in his personal room and listened as everybody bustled about, moving furniture and organizing their personal belongings. The Fox had no such material luggage, as everything he owned had been confiscated by MI6.

He was given freedom enough to move about the flat and he stood, walking into the kitchen. "Shall I make us some tea?" he asked, poking his head into the sitting room where Mycroft and Anthea were.

"Please, that would be lovely." Mycroft replied absently as he stood overseeing the men wrestling pieces of heavy furniture. He would never dream of moving things himself. Ugh, _legwork..._

The Fox retreated back into the kitchen and Mycroft followed him.

"Busy day?" the Fox asked politely when he heard something heavy thump in the sitting room.

Mycroft threw a slightly concerned glance over his shoulder. "Indeed."

He watched intently as the Fox spooned tea leaves into a pot and set water on the stove to boil. "What were you doing in Romainville?" he asked as the German agent set about looking for sugar cubes.

There were no knives in the kitchen, the Fox noted silently. "I was captured by Germans." he replied simply. "I was a Brit in German occupied France, and taken as a political prisoner of war."

"Ah, and what were you doing in German occupied France?" Mycroft pried.

An embarrassed smile from the Fox. "Running from the British police."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose. "Oh? This should be good."

The Fox let out a laugh. "I - um - I robbed a bank... several, actually." he admitted. "The police didn't have anything on me but a suspicion of 'a man with a hat worn low over his face'. They weren't even sure said 'man with hat' was involved with the crime other than he was spotted near the scene. Anyway, I didn't want to risk getting caught so I left."

"Bad timing on that." Mycroft remarked dryly.

"Yes, I was initially just passing through France to get to Lisbon, and from there to America." The Fox shrugged. "Funny how that turned out."

"Indeed."

The Fox turned away and poured them both tea.

* * *

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Food was brought into Baker Street through Anthea and Mycroft was specific in ensuring nothing would be cooked in the flat for security purposes.

The Fox smiled at the implied 'let's not give the German agent a knife.'

That night, after everyone but Mycroft and Sherlock went to bed, the terror started.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Mycroft leaped out of his seat in the sitting room and rushed to the Fox's room at the first hoarse yell just as Anthea blearily poked her head out of her bedroom door.

They quickly arrived at the Fox's room and opened the door. The only door in the house without a lock.

The Fox was in a right unconscious state of panic, sweating and thrashing, tangled in his sheets. Mycroft and Anthea exchanged concerned glances before cautiously nearing the bed.

The Fox instinctively twisted jerkily away from the noise and curled in on himself, gasping in shaky breaths.

Mycroft reached out slowly and tentatively touched the Fox's shoulder. "Der Fuchs..." he called quietly so as not to startle.

The Fox's deep brown, terrified eyes flew open and his lips parted in a soundless scream and he immediately snapped his mouth shut. He saw Mycroft, and after a long second, Anthea.

"Oh..." he panted. "I'm sorry." he said, eyes wide and afraid. Childlike.

Mycroft shook his head. "Don't be-..."

His sentence was cut off by another shout. Everybody jumped. It had come from the flat next to theirs... 221b.

Mycroft looked at Anthea sharply. "Check on them. I will remain here." he ordered.

Anthea nodded sternly and ran out in her dressing gown.

Mycroft stayed where he stood, a foot or two away from the Fox. "Bad dream?" he asked conversationally. The Fox nodded. "Would you like to tell me about it?"

The Fox looked up at him sharply. "Is that an order?"

Mycroft thought about it. "No." he decided. "It is not."

They fell into silence again. This time, it was the Fox who broke it. "In Romainville, there were only two English speakers, you know?" he said. "One was me, the other was a stranger... we were the only two Brits in the Fort."

Mycroft leaned his hip against the nightstand. "What happened to him?"

The Fox shrugged miserably. "I don't know. The Germans said they'd keep a hold of him to make sure I followed orders."

"A leash." Mycroft mused. "Freedom never comes without a catch. They didn't want to risk you running off."

The Fox nodded his head. "He's still in there." he said slowly. Mycroft nodded his understanding. "Mister Holmes, before I agreed to work with the Abwehr, I was in solitary confinement with my friend, both of us were being punished for trying to escape together." The German agent took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I hadn't eaten for three days, hadn't seen the sun for the same." he looked haunted. "Hadn't eaten what you would call properly edible food in three years." He looked at Mycroft with empty eyes. "You know what it's like to have regular beatings without any idea why, in those conditions? Some days they'd march groups of inmates out into the courtyard and execute them for no reason known to us. Do you know what it's like? Waking up each morning not knowing if this was the day you were going to die?"

Mycroft confessed that he didn't.

The Fox just nodded to himself. "Good." he said. "That's good."

Seeing the the spy had calmed himself considerably, Mycroft turned to leave, reminding himself sternly not to feel sympathy for the traitor.

"You may think little of me for betraying my country, but that's alright." the Fox shrugged. "I don't regret doing what I had to do to survive. And I couldn't care less about what you think of that."

Mycroft made a mistake by glancing over his shoulder at the German agent as the man turned away, staring out of the barred windows.

There were countless white scars criss-crossing along his back and arms under his damp and transparent white night shirt. Obvious remnants of countless whippings. His ribs protruded gently from his torso like that of a man who is unaccustomed to eating much. His bare feet looked leathery from walking over sharp, gravelly surfaces without footwear.

He had lived in that Hell hole for three years.

"Goodnight, Fuchs." Mycroft said, almost inaudibly and closed the door.

He turned around, face pale, and stalked back to the sitting room.

Anthea met him there. "That was Doctor Watson." she told him. "Nightmares from the war."

They both sat down and said nothing until the sun rose.

* * *

"I believe that Agents Napoleon and Heinz were given orders to assassinate a list of British Intelligence Agents and you got in their way, so I was sent to eliminate you." the Fox said the next day, over lunch. It was the first time he had given information without being asked.

Mycroft looked at him. "Do you have any information to support your theory?" he asked.

The Fox fidgeted a little. "When I left la Bretonniere, I was given a parcel to keep safe until the time came when one of their other agents needed to pick it up." Mycroft sipped his head and nodded for him to go on. "I was specifically told not to open the parcel... but I did." Mycroft almost smiled at that. "I found various fake documentations, a sniper rifle, and a book of Grimm's Fairytales."

Mycroft's eyebrows jumped. "Some light reading?" he joked humorlessly. The Fox's face was unreadable, Mycroft noticed it. "What?"

"I thought it was suspicious... some sort of book code." the Fox drew out his words, procrastinating. "I copied it down." His German handlers would probably have his skin for that. Mycroft understood his caution.

But, at the moment, Mycroft could've kissed him. Obviously, he refrained from doing so. He couldn't quite hide his smile fast enough, though.

"What?" the Fox said, eyes narrowing.

Mycroft caught his eye and broke out into mirthful chuckles. "Oh, I feel sorry for your handler." he said, covering his mouth with his hand. "You're quite extraordinary, Fuchs, I really do mean it. You're a rather troublesome man."

The Fox smiled back, then broke out into laughter. "I suppose I am."

* * *

Later that day, under the sharp eye of Sherlock, the Fox scribed out a message to his German handlers.

**OBJECTIVE REACHED. MYCROFT HOLMES DEAD. DER FUCHS.** The Fox paused for a split second and made his final decision. **PARIS.**

All was well, he lied to his German handlers. Mycroft Holmes is dead. The Fox had, in that moment, become a full-fledged double agent.

There was no going back.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Sherlock was on the sofa in 221b Baker Street. He had been on the damned thing for over three days straight, only getting off to occasionally use the bathroom.

John was suitably worried about his well being.

"Sherlock..."

"Not now, John." Sherlock snapped, flipping another page of the Fox's Grimm's Fairytales.

"You've got to eat." John rolled his eyes.

"That's optional." Sherlock replied curtly.

John looked like he wanted to grab Sherlock and manhandle him away from that book, but thought better of it. "Alright, well I'm going to go visit next door." he said and walked out.

He knocked on the door to the next flat over. Anthea opened it a crack. "Oh, hello Doctor." she greeted politely.

"Hi, can I come in?" John asked. "Sherlock's driving me crazy."

"Oh? What's he doing?" Anthea asked.

"Nothing." John heaved out a large breath. "Absolutely nothing."

Anthea stepped back and opened the door.

They walked into the sitting room where Mycroft and the Fox were talking about sabotage tactics over a game of chess.

"There's this wonderful little gadget the Germans have created." the Fox was telling Mycroft. "Small bomb, about the size of your palm, they paint the surface black and rub some soot on in to make it look like a lump of coal. Then, they just throw it in with the rest of the coal and wait for the shoveler to throw the bomb into the furnace. Boom! Easy." The Fox moved his bishop.

"Hm, I'd love to see this explosive myself." Mycroft mused, capturing a black pawn with a white rook.

"Ask the next German agent you come across if he has any in reserves." the Fox smirked wryly.

"I was thinking..." Mycroft trailed off when he saw John and Anthea by the door. "... I was quite hoping you would oblige us." he continued.

The Fox frowned, capturing Mycroft's rook with his knight. "You're asking me to take a huge risk."

"Yes, I am." Mycroft took a the knight with his queen. "The Germans had tried to get in contact with you and Sherlock, using your unique cipher, posed as yourself and agreed to return to Paris."

A black rook took the queen. "I doubt that's wise."

"You think I haven't thought of every other option?" Mycroft took the rook with a bishop. "Checkmate."

The Fox stared at the board, not even disappointed at his loss. He had more pressing things to worry about. He rubbed a hand over his face. "You're serious?"

Mycroft looked at him. "Perfectly."

The Fox entwined his fingers and rested his chin on them, thinking hard.

Then, he reached out and flicked his black king onto its side.

The piece rolled off the coffee table and fell onto the floor, rattling and tumbling to a stop in the shadow under a sofa.

The German agent stood silently and walked out of the room.

Mycroft's gaze remained fixed on the chessboard.

* * *

The Fox had timed his escape perfectly. Sherlock was still on his sofa in the next flat, Anthea was out getting dinner, and John was down at a hospital visiting a few army friends who had just been shipped in.

He held a short metal rod, a twisted off piece of the hand towel rack in the bathroom. He turned on the kitchen stove and held the metal to it, heating it quickly.

Mycroft walked in when he smelled something burning.

Quick as a flash, red-hot metal was held near his neck as the Fox ambushed him from behind. "Don't panic." he said quietly. "We're getting out of here."

Mycroft swallowed thickly as the glowing metal heated his skin, near burning.

They walked out of their flat and snuck past 221b, down the stairs, and out onto the street. Mycroft and the Fox both saw the two MI6 agents from the flat across the street run out.

"Stop, or I drive this fire rod into Mister Holmes's neck!" the Fox snapped at them. "It might not kill him, but it sure as Hell won't be pretty."

They stopped. The Fox nudged Mycroft toward his car in the street. "Open it." Mycroft did so and the Fox scooted in over the driver's seat to the passenger's side, pulling Mycroft in with him. "Drive." he said brusquely.

"Where do you think you're going?" Mycroft asked him levelly.

The Fox was quiet for a while. "Away." he said finally.

Mycroft finally dared to glance in his direction, braving the hot poker.

The man looked hunted and terrified. A cornered Fox with no escape.

_Oh._

They drove for a while, first driving aimlessly around in the streets before the Fox decided to get out of the city.

"I don't want to go back there." the Fox said in a near whisper at length. He placed his metal rod down in his lap, it had long cooled by now.

Mycroft didn't take his eyes off the road. "I had a suspicion."

The Fox let out a humorless laugh.

"I want to go home." the double agent decided after a few minutes.

Mycroft now looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "And where would that be?"

The Fox toyed with the end of his rod. "Dorset."

Mycroft nodded. "Very well."

The drive took them roughly three hours. They did not talk to each other, and neither did the Fox let go of his metal rod.

"Turn here." The Fox said suddenly, pointing to a side road.

Mycroft turned.

They drew up alongside a row of pretty little suburban houses. "Which one is it?" Mycroft asked.

"Fifth on the right." the Fox mumbled. Mycroft began pulling over to stop the car, but the double agent stopped him with a hand on the wheel, keeping it steady. "No. Don't stop. ...Just drive."

Mycroft and he watched the house as they passed it by.

Just as they did so, the front door opened and a beautiful little boy scampered out into the yard, his attractive mother following shortly.

Mycroft watched the Fox out of the corner of his eye as the man stared, transfixed at the two, burst into tears, then tore his gaze away as if burned.

"Who are they?" Mycroft asked him softly when they reached the end of the street and left the neighborhood.

"Maisie and Johno." the Fox mumbled. "I've never met Johno in my life... I just wanted to see him before-..."

The two spies relapsed into silence all the drive back to London.

* * *

John was sitting meekly on the front step of 221 Baker Street when they returned. He jumped up and the two MI6 agents from before ran out of their flat.

Mycroft stopped them with a wave. "We're back. We've got a handle on things. Forget this ever happened." he said to them. Then, he turned to John. "Did Anthea lock you out?"

John nodded with a self-deprecating look. "Yeah. She ranted about how I was supposed to stay at least until she had gotten back. And then she left me out here."

The Fox grimaced sympathetically. "Sorry mate."

John shrugged. "It's fine. Nobody's hurt, right?" he looked to Mycroft to reply.

"No, we are quite alright." Mycroft replied breezily as if he had not had a flaming hot poker pointed at his neck a few hours ago. "Fuchs here, simply had extremely private matters that needed tending to and did not wish the MI6 to dog his every movement."

John looked from Mycroft to the Fox, and back. "What does that mean?"

"It means I'm going back to France." the Fox replied stiffly and pushed his way past John and disappeared into the house.

Mycroft and John watched him go. "It means he suspects that he will not make it back." Mycroft translated.

John looked at Mycroft sharply.

Mycroft stared back stoically.

"Do you think the Abwehr will find out that he is a double agent?" John asked the spymaster.

Mycroft fished around in his coat pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. He hadn't smoked in years, he had taken these off his brother. He slotted one into his mouth and lit it.

"Perhaps."

John lowered his gaze and watched his toes. "When is he going?"

Mycroft inhaled smoke and let a great plume out of his lips. "Day after tomorrow." he replied.

"Is he going to die?" John asked, looking up, trying to look Mycroft in the eye. He wondered if the British spymaster would let the Fox die.

Mycroft's teeth clenched down hard on his cigarette behind closed lips, though his face showed no discomfort.

"Perhaps."

* * *

The next morning, Mycroft returned alone to the house he had passed by with the Fox the earlier day. The woman was sitting on the porch with her son and playing with him.

She stood up when Mycroft walked up to the house. "Can I help you?" she asked politely, but wary.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes of His Majesty's Service." Mycroft introduced himself. "I am a friend of-..." What was the Fox's relation to these people? Friend? Husband? Lover? "... a friend."

Maisie narrowed her eyes at him. "Oh, and what can I do for you?" Johno tried to run out toward Mycroft, but his mother held him back by the shoulder.

Mycroft pulled out a picture of the Fox and showed it to her. "Can you please tell me the nature of your relationship with this man?" he asked.

The woman took the picture and sucked in a sharp breath, quickly handing it back, clearing her throat uncomfortably. "That's Greg." she said. "That's my older brother."

Ah, so it was the brother. "When was the last time you saw Gregory, ma'am?" he asked.

"I haven't seen him in years, Sir." Maisie replied. "Gregory Lestrade is dead."


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

The Fox stared at the large ship docked in the harbor. The merchant ship 'City of Lancaster' bobbed a bit the in the choppy waves. The double agent looked right miserable.

"You look like you could use a smoke." Sherlock offered tentatively from his right side.

"Be honest, I look like I could use a stiff drink." The Fox returned with a heavy sigh.

John, on his left side, snorted in amusement. Then, the army doctor clapped him on the shoulder. "Be seeing you, mate." he said firmly in a way that said 'or else'.

The Fox nodded slowly. "Okay."

A few minutes later, he boarded the ship and stood out on the bow until dry land drifted out of sight.

And he was gone.

* * *

Sherlock was back on his sofa when Mycroft returned from Downing Street.

"Did you find anything?" the elder Holmes asked, peering over the younger's shoulder.

Sherlock grunted. "It mentions something about 'Coventry'. Some operation the MI6 worked on."

"Yes." Mycroft nodded slowly. "If the Germans know about Coventry it means they know that their messages had been decrypted in Bletchley Park. They know that much of their communications are monitored, which would explain the need for the encrypted hard-copy." He tapped the Grimm's Fairytale book.

"And these agents that were killed?" Sherlock asked him.

"Anderson was stationed in Czechoslovakia where he befriended a German agent and found out the word the Germans had been encrypting messages on." Mycroft frowned. "Raz was our agent in Coventry but was ordered to move out before the blitz."

"They're sending a message of their own, it seems." Sherlock mused. "If we could crack their codes, they could crack ours... they know every agent who was involved in the Coventry Blitz."

Mycroft entwined his fingers in front of himself. "The only person I can think of who may also be a target is Harry."

"Harry?" Sherlock asked inquiringly.

"Yes." Mycroft frowned. "Harry, the Royal Equerry, Buckingham Palace." Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. "Before he was Equerry, he was Spymaster. He had a little mishap with the Germans and has since never returned to the war. He was the MI6 head of operations at Coventry."

"Then that is where Moriarty and Moran will strike next." Sherlock folded his hands under his chin. "That is where we must be."

* * *

"I can't believe this." John blew out a breath nervously. "I'm sitting in Buckingham Palace. Just who is your brother, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I couldn't possibly say, John. These walls have ears, and they are not all Mycroft's."

Just then, an elderly man with combed blonde hair walked in with Mycroft. "Gentlemen." he greeted politely.

"Sherlock, Doctor Watson, this is Harry, and old friend." John raised his eyebrows and Harry gave just a hint of a smile back. "Harry, this is my younger brother Sherlock, and Doctor-... excuse me, Captain John Watson."

Harry shook both their hands firmly. "Gentlemen, I hear there are men out there to kill me." he said with a resigned smile.

"When isn't there?" Mycroft smirked back.

"Mycroft, you may be spymaster now, but I knew you when you were still green and in training." Harry admonished fondly. "You're not too old to ground."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned to Sherlock and John. "Harry was spymaster during my training period, and handler in the field."

"He was our most brilliant." Harry told them. "But also our most maverick."

"Why follow rules when there are better ways?" Mycroft returned coolly.

"Well, you're spymaster now." Harry turned his palms upward. "You're calling the shots."

The four of them quickly formed a huddled circle and began planning their strategy.

* * *

Moriarty and Sebastian were sat on the roof of a building a good distance from the Palace. The sniper had his rifle out and was keeping watch on their target's movements through his scope.

Moriarty was faced the other way, enjoying the London view through his binoculars and humming a little tune to himself.

"There he is." Sebastian grunted when Harry strode purposefully out of the Palace on an errand, an aide hurrying alongside him, covering them from a light sprinkle with an umbrella. That was a little vexing. Headshots were unreliable behind cover, there was a chance he might miss. He zeroed the cross-hairs in on Harry's heart. "Got him." He chambered a bullet.

"Go, Sebby, go!" Moriarty sing-songed, not even turning to watch.

_**Bang!**_

Harry toppled and fell to the ground, blood pouring from his chest.

Sebastian raised his head a little and then confirmed his hit. "Done, and done." he said tersely.

"Mhm..." Moriarty hummed, finally turning. "Good job, let's go."

Sebastian lowered his rifle and stood up.

At that moment, Sherlock and John walked out onto the roof. Both German agents stopped, Sebastian stiffened in surprise but kept his features stoic. Moriarty had the most unreadable pokerface on.

Then, he smiled slowly, lazily. "Oh... hello."

"Moriarty." Sherlock growled under his breath.

"Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty returned with an indolent smile. He was quite pleased with the look of slight surprise on Sherlock's face.

John and Sebastian stared each other down.

"Watson." Sebastian said.

"Moran." John replied.

Both had that short, curt tone of the military. The sniper and the doctor, shark and lion, both lords of their respective combat styles. In their previous battle, Sebastian had the upper hand, sniping being his specialty. But this time, it was close-combat, John's territory.

The four regarded each other like old enemies.

Then, Sherlock blinked and Sebastian's grip on his rifle tightened.

And all Hell broke loose.

* * *

"Alright, are we Harry?" Harry's 'aide' asked, lowering his umbrella.

Harry coughed painfully. "Took a bullet, but we're alright." he replied sarcastically and glared up at Mycroft. "Was all this really necessary?"

Mycroft helped him sit up as guards rushed toward them from all directions.

"Perfectly. Now let's get you out of this..." The junior spymaster helped his senior out of his suit jacket and the bullet-proofed vest underneath. The pig's blood poured down the Royal Equerry's white shirt.

Harry looked irate. "I liked this shirt." he mumbled, probing at his bruised ribs as Mycroft pulled him to his feet and led him into the safety of the indoors.

"I have it on good authority that you have at least seven identical ones, don't be a child." Mycroft retorted, glancing in the direction he knew Sherlock and John were facing down the German agents.

Harry gave Mycroft a piercing look from under his eyebrows. "'Seven'?" he said.

Mycroft returned the look coolly. "Seven."

Harry huffed. "Damn it, I need to upgrade my security."

Mycroft just smiled back.

* * *

Up on the rooftop, Sebastian swung his rifle upward from his side just as John raised his gun to shoot and knocked the weapon out of the doctor's hand. The gun fell to the floor, skittering off in a wild spin. The sniper took the doctor's brief distraction to bring his rifle up to his shoulder but John tackled him, moving in too close to be blown away by the longer gun.

The fight between Sherlock and Moriarty started a second later.

Moriarty flicked out a switchblade, one that he disliked using because of all the bloody mess it caused, but fate simply cannot be avoided. Vexing people must be skinned, so Moriarty carried it around in his pocket in case of urgent use.

Cases like this... or for paring apples when Sebastian wouldn't oblige him.

Sherlock stood tense, ready for the assault.

Moriarty lunged with the knife and Sherlock parried the blow with his right arm, grabbing the hand the held the knife with his left and threw Moriarty, using his inertia against him.

Moriarty stumbled but recovered quickly, twirling the knife in his hand in hypnotic patterns as a slow smile snaked across his face.

John had his arms still wrapped around Sebastian's torso at waist level, his shoulder digging into something hard... a rib. Sebastian let out a growl that John felt vibrate into his head more than he heard, and brought his elbow down hard on the doctor, pistoning his knee upward simultaneously into John's stomach.

John let out a choked wheeze and curled in on himself, Sebastian grabbed that moment to shove the smaller man off him.

"You know," Moriarty said slowly, thoughtfully. "I had heard that Mycroft Holmes had a brother who was _crazy._" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "You won't believe what people say about you. They say you're mad... psychopathic. Not a soul in you - no." Moriarty rolled his eyes a little. "Or, well, you _may_ believe it."

"'Mad'?" Sherlock scoffed back. "Obviously I've got nothing on you." It was he who attacked first this time.

He darted in, lightning quick and lashed out with a hard punch, landing the blow successfully on Moriarty's jaw. The German agent reeled with the blow but surged back in a second, dishing out a punch of his own.

John saw a glint of steel in the corner of his vision and barely managed to dodge the swipe of a small knife Sebastian had hidden in his boot. The little doctor blocked the next slash with his forearm and rammed his head forward, catching the sniper square in the nose.

Sebastian let out a muffled curse and blood gushed out. Neither soldier payed the scarlet liquid any attention.

"Look at me." Sherlock growled when he caught Moriarty watching the soldiers' fight out of the corner of his eye. "Keep your eyes on me!" he called out louder when Moriarty didn't look.

He didn't like the glint in Moriarty's eye.

"He's sweet." Moriarty said slowly, suddenly straightening from his fighting stance. "I can see why you keep him around. So touchingly loyal... I saw, you see, how he froze up when he first saw my Sebby."

The knife in the German agent's hand jumped and twirled.

"Some things I've heard about you, Sherlock Holmes. You've never had a friend in your life." Moriarty cooed, extending his arm, pointing the tip of the knife at John's oblivious back. "Or maybe just the one."

Sherlock's eyes widened almost imperceptively. "Don't try, Moriarty. You can't win." he said at length.

Moriarty just smiled back hollowly. "We won't know until we try." he replied simply. "Who knows? I might surprise you."

And then he took off at a run, Sherlock not far behind him.

But the German agent was closer...

John and Sebastian were wrestling over the sniper's knife when they felt the powerful impact. It knocked the two soldiers clear off their feet.

John quickly recovered himself, as did Sebastian.

When the army doctor looked up, he could only see the black of Sherlock's coat. Never in his brief acquaintance with the cryptologyst, did that man's back look both massive, and so lonely. Like Atlas with the world on his shoulders.

He realized that it was Sherlock who had knocked into him and Sebastian... or had he pushed him aside?

Moriarty had a knife in his hands, a tight grip for stabbing.

John felt the blood in his veins run cold. He could've died if Sherlock hadn't saved him.

Sherlock stumbled backward a few steps from the impact and struggled to steady himself, hands gripping Moriarty's wrists, preventing himself from being stabbed. Moriarty, looking both betrayed and resigned, he let a slow upset expression slide across his face, covering his surprise.

"Oh... no..." he moaned. "No... you're ordinary. I thought you'd be different."

Sherlock looked at him, confused, faces inches away. "What...?"

"Staying alive..." Moriarty mumbled. "I thought you'd be a distraction. I was wrong." He suddenly looked resigned... and a little sad. "Oh, well."

Without giving Sherlock time to regain his balance, Moriarty ground the soles of his shoes into the floor, pressing forward, propelling Sherlock backward... toward the edge of the roof.

It was Sebastian who realized what was happening first. His eyes widened and he lunged for Moriarty. "No-... _Jim!_" he shouted desperately.

His fingers curled around thin air, the corner of Moriarty's coat just slipping through them.

And the two men tumbled over the edge, plummeting down onto the pavement below.

John sat in shock, feeling numb from head to toe.

"No-... oh God, no... _Sherlock!_"


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

The Fox sat in a small nook of a cafe in Lisbon where he was told someone from the Abwehr would pick him up. He had only sat there for an hour when someone slid into the seat opposite.

It was the pretty German-American agent who had met with him in Romainville, Irene Adler.

The Fox smiled. "Good afternoon, Fraulein Adler." he greeted the beautiful agent in flawless German.

Irene smiled back. "Hello, handsome." she said in English.

They got up and left the cafe.

"Car's just down the street." Irene told him as she led the way. "How was your stay in England?"

"Provocative." the Fox replied tersely. It was always a safe reply.

Irene flashed him a knowing smile. They got into a car and the spy mistress drove them silently to la Bretonniere, both casually commenting on the weather and such.

As the German Intelligence base rose up in their sights, Irene's expression suddenly turned grim.

"They suspect something happened in England." she told him warningly. "They heard something from someone."

The Fox glanced at her from the corner of his eye and watched her light up a thin cigarette single-handed, but said nothing.

Irene huffed out a breath, clearly upset. "I heard Groning mention something about you being in cahoots with the MI6."

"Can't imagine who he got that information from." The Fox replied levelly.

* * *

"Shit, _shit!_ God _fucking dammit!_" Sebastian shouted, rushing to the edge of the roof and peering down. "Jim, you asshole!"

Two bodies lay motionless on the ground.

_"Fuck!"_ The sniper looked utterly lost for one second, running his fingers through his hair, down the back of his neck, and up over his mouth in agitation. "Shit!"

Then he turned and ran.

John recovered a little slower and dove for his discarded gun. He brought it up shakily and aimed at the fleeing sniper.

_**Bang!**_

Sebastian staggered to the side a few steps but continued running, blood flowing down his arm. John growled as the man escaped out of range of his small handgun and contemplated setting chase.

He glanced from the street below, to the fleeing man, and back. Then, with a stifled curse, he threw his gun down and ran for the fire escape. He took one last look at the ghost that haunted his memory, but he was gone.

He shook his head and ran as fast as he could to his friend.

* * *

Mycroft's car drew up on the side of the street and the MI6 agent jumped out before Anthea had even fully stopped it. He dashed to the two fallen men and hastily rolled Moriarty off his younger brother just as John clambered down to them.

Moriarty let out a weak little moan and then burst out into bitter giggles. "Stayin' alive..." he panted, blood bubbling from his lips. "T-that's the final problem..." He looked at Mycroft. "God, I hope I'm not going to live."

Mycroft spared the insane man a disgusted look and gripped Sherlock's shoulder, slowly turning him over.

Blood was flowing from a wound on Sherlock's head and Mycroft wasn't sure he was still breathing. "Sherlock! Sherlock!" he shouted over and over to his younger brother.

"Sir." Anthea called, running up to them as an ambulance screeched to a halt a few feet away. Donovan and Molly jumped out.

"Oh, God..." Donovan covered her mouth, looking pale.

With great difficulty, Mycroft, John, and the two medical women lifted Sherlock off the hard pavement and into the back of the waiting ambulance as Anthea kept a sharp eye on Moriarty.

"He's my friend. I'm his doctor." John said to Donovan authoritatively when the woman began protesting about John riding in the ambulance with them. Donovan, seeing the anguished look on the doctor's face, bit her lip and nodded.

Mycroft stopped Molly when the woman had tried to go back for Moriarty. "Leave him!" he snapped. "Help my brother."

Molly hesitated, battling inwardly between authority and her will to save lives. After a moment, she nodded and hopped quietly into the back with Sherlock and John.

Mycroft watched the ambulance tear off before turning and stalking back to Moriarty, kneeling beside the man.

"So help me, if my brother dies-..." Mycroft seethed with all the cold anger of the Iceman.

"W-what are you gonna do?" Moriarty cut him off. "Kill m-me?" He smiled weakly, baring bloody teeth. He didn't even have the strength to sit up with his own power.

Mycroft reached out and gripped Moriarty's arm tight to make sure the man's steadily deteriorating consciousness did not slip away. "No." he replied slowly, too calm to be genuine. "But I can save you. I can make you live for a very long time Mister Moriarty, in a very small cell with no light, outside contact, or distractions." Moriarty's sunken eyes turned to him. "And I will leave you there, strapped to a hard bed, fed through a straw, unable to even take your own life, until that abysmal mind of yours tears your sanity apart for kicks. I will not have to lift a finger against you, you will do it to yourself. And every time you call out, _begging_ for death, I will be standing right outside that door, listening, _enjoying_ your agony." Mycroft grabbed Moriarty's collar and hefted him up a few inches, bringing them face to face. "Is that clear?"

Moriarty let out a shuddering breath as he struggled to focus on one of Mycroft's eyes, then the other. "S-so the Iceman does have a h-heart." he huffed out a laugh as if hearing the most hilarious joke. "Oh, I-I hope that poor boy dies. If only to see you su- suffer."

Mycroft dropped Moriarty back and punched him. The German agent only laughed.

"But there's one more." Moriarty said warningly, a smile creasing his cheek. "Sebby will see that the m-mission is compl-..." He spat out blood. "Completed."

Mycroft looked at him, confused. "No... Harry was the last one." he said, more to himself.

"Yes... the last of Britain's glorious n-network of-... spooks." Moriarty's sentences were beginning to break up and his words slowed. "But what about... Germany's?"

Mycroft stared at him. "Why would you kill your own agents?"

Moriarty snorted, blood and spittle flying out from between his curved lips. "He counts as yours now. I've t-tattled to ol' G-Groning." he said with a startlingly gentle look. "That old bast-bastard will kill me f-for leaving. I w-wonder if Sebby will ever forgive me f-for this... P-probably not, the arse."

Mycroft grabbed Moriarty by his lapels and shook him. "Who is the German agent?" he demanded.

Moriarty smirked at him. "The old sniper's goin' a fox huntin'...!" he sing-songed tauntingly.

A Fox... The bottom of Mycroft's stomach dropped out as he realized with horror that he had just sent the Fox back to his German handlers who knew they had been betrayed.

He was shaken out of his thoughts when he heard a wet cough. Then, the pinpoint of light in Moriarty's eyes died out and the hands gripping Mycroft's arms fell away limply.

With a final gentle exhale, Jim Moriarty died.


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

"Der Fuchs." Captain Stephan von Groning, head of the Abwehr station in Paris, greeted the Fox cordially.

"Herr Groning." the Fox responded, shaking the man's hand firmly. The two had oftentimes got along quite splendidly during the Fox's training period here.

"It has been too long." Groning smiled almost sadly.

"But not quite long enough, Sir." the Fox quipped back with a cheeky grin. Groning laughed.

The two sat down in stuffed leather chairs in Groning's wood paneled private office. Groning poured them both tumblers of whiskey even though it was still quite early in the afternoon.

"I must say, I've heard some disconcerting things about your actions in Britain." Groning said slowly, sipping his drink.

"What sort of things?" the Fox asked back without even a blink although he had the presence of mind to widen his eyes deceptively in surprise. He had already been warned of this by Adler. He had nothing to be surprised about.

"I heard you were captured by the British Intelligence and held for an unaccountable stretch of time." Groning stared out at him from under his eyebrows. "Can you explain to me what happened and how you are here now?"

The man's tone was soft and unaccusing. The Fox leaned back in his seat, tapping his knee.

"I was given orders to assassinate Mycroft Holmes." he said slowly. "My first attempt failed and brought the wrath of British Intelligence on my head. They hounded me and I acted in haste. I tried to assassinate Holmes a second time and was ultimately captured. I was blindfolded and brought to a British camp where I was briefly tortured for information."

Here, Groning looked a little concerned. He considered many of his close trainees as friends and brothers. The Fox was one of such concern. "Go on." he said, leaning forward in his seat.

"I was pushed near to the point of breaking." the Fox lied. "So I began talking." Groning's eyebrows rose. "I lied in response to every question they asked. I think they were only forced to believe my lies because they could not prove that what I said was not true." The Fox directed his gaze down at his toes, looking for all the world like a boy expecting a punishment.

More like, waiting to be marched out behind the house and shot.

After a long, terrifying moment of silence, Groning burst out into laughter. "My boy, you are a wonder!" he exclaimed, the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he smiled. "I knew you were too great a talent to be wasted in Romainville!"

The Fox raised his head and smiled brilliantly, masking his uncertainty.

Had Groning been fooled?

* * *

"Contact me as soon as Sherlock gets out of surgery." Mycroft instructed Anthea as he threw changes of clothes into a suitcase. "And get Dimmock to get that awful body off the street!"

"Sir, you are not staying?" Anthea asked.

"I have no doubt that Doctor Watson will look after Sherlock, make him comfortable, get him a bed in the hospital if need be." Mycroft sifted through a pile of papers for his passport. "The Fox is in danger. The Germans know he was turned. He is my agent, I am his handler, and I have sent him straight into the jaws of the hungry lion." The spymaster looked upset and disappointed in himself. "I must go."

And he dashed out faster than he had ever run in his life.

He had a boat to catch.

* * *

The Fox reported everything he had done in England to the authorities, of course, he lied half the time too, and did it with a smile, but the basic outline of his fieldwork had been covered. All of being captured by the MI6 and lying his sly arse off.

The authorities looked mostly amused at his antics and the Fox had little doubt that they did not believe him.

Attempting to assassinate Mycroft Holmes and ending up killing an innocent little dog sounded like the sort of mishaps he'd run into. They had a good long laugh about it. And nobody seemed to doubt him when he told them that his second assassination attempt had succeeded.

And so far, nobody mentioned executing him, so he managed to relax a little.

After he was finished reporting, he was escorted back to the room he had previously lived in when he was in training and left to rest. He noted that the door was locked behind him.

During his training period, the Fox was still considered a British civilian and was not allowed to go anywhere without one of his German overseers breathing down his neck. He had discreetly found a way to climb down from his third floor window and how to get off the grounds without being caught.

He now utilized this knowledge to sneak out of his room and infiltrate Groning's office, that was currently empty, and sifted through the man's desk looking for information that might be valuable to MI6.

He had only been able to search for ten minutes when he heard footsteps in the hall outside and retreated to his room half an hour before someone came with dinner.

* * *

Mycroft was in his bunk on a merchant ship setting sail for neutral Portugal when two large sailors entered respectfully and dropped off two large suitcases.

"Excuse me, what is this?" Mycroft asked them, puzzled. "These aren't mine."

The two sailors exchanged confused glances. "We were told to bring these aboard to a Mister Mycroft Holmes, is that correct?"

Mycroft nodded slowly, and caught sight of a tag pasted on one of the large suitcases, this one came well up to his chest height. It had Anthea's delicate handwriting giving specific instructions to find Mycroft Holmes's bunker and to transport both suitcases to him.

"Very well, then." Mycroft shrugged.

The two men left.

A moment later, there was a sound of latches coming undone and the larger suitcase popped open, revealing a strangely unruffled Anthea. The woman unfolded herself from her curled position and stepped out, very ladylike.

Mycroft just stared at her in shock.

"Did you think you could invade German occupied France without me, Sir?" she asked, eyebrow raised. "You didn't even pack a gun in that suitcase of yours, you daft sod!"

"Um..." Mycroft was at loss for words.

Anthea opened the second suitcase and handed Mycroft a suitcase identical to his. "Here, Sir." she said. "Fitted specifically for fieldwork. Clothes, gun, toiletries, map, money, torch, watch, compass, matches, poison tablet, documents - and if need be - boots and bandages."

Mycroft stared at her in amazement some more. "Anthea, what would I do without you?"

"Be stranded in German occupied France with nothing but a change of British-tailored clothes, your passport, and pocket change in British currency, I reckon." Anthea smirked. "You're welcome."

Mycroft turned and looked at the larger suitcase that his assistant had boarded on. "But-... but why...?"

Anthea sniffed and waved breezily. "I was busy handling your brother's situation and packing for you. You will forgive me if I couldn't find my passport and did not wait for legal documents. It would've taken days!"

Mycroft looked from the suitcase to Anthea, and back. Then he burst out into laughter. "There isn't a day that I regret recruiting you into the Service." he said at length.

Anthea shrugged. "You might, if I get caught in Portugal or France for being an illegal immigrant."

Mycroft just regarded the suitcase with another look and continued chuckling in helpless amazement.

Sometimes, he really loved that woman.


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

It wasn't until three days later, that Sebastian caught up to the Fox. He had lost all his and Moriarty's possessions when he had run, no radio transmitter, or any other such communications device with which to get into contact with his German handlers, and had to make his way back to France alone without assistance.

It was a slow and arduous journey, but he made it.

He briefly touched the bandage on his arm and winced. It was still a long way from healed, but he had dug out John's bullet and treated himself. He was a soldier. He would be fine.

He pulled his car up to la Bretonniere and stepped out, greeting the agent who walked out to meet him. "What news on der Fuchs?" he asked brusquely.

The agent looked at him oddly. "He is in his room, Herr Heinz." the man replied tentatively.

Sebastian's head whipped around to stare at him incredulously. "Are you_ insane?_" he shouted angrily. "That man has been turned into a double agent by the MI6! Agent Napoleon must have informed you of the situation, secure him immediately!"

That sent the poor man running frantically.

Sebastian rolled his eyes and cursed the German agents' incompetence. Must he do everything himself?

* * *

"Just up the road there." Anthea said, studying the map as Mycroft drove. "La Bretonniere should be just over that hill..."

"I see it." Mycroft declared, driving faster.

"We should stop the car before we get too close. We don't want to be spotted." Anthea suggested.

"I agree."

* * *

The Fox was startled to hear multiple pairs of footsteps outside his door in the hall. He sat up in his bed and listened hard. He heard voices.

_There!_ Someone mentioned 'Heinz'. _Shit!_

The Fox leaped out of bed quietly and shoved his legs into trousers, pulling a loose shirt over his head, and stuffing his feet into boots. The Germans had taken all his weapons when he returned.

_Shit!_

He opened the window of his room and scaled down the outside of the house just as his bedroom door was unlocked and kicked open. Bullets flew over his head as he shimmied down to the ground.

He landed on a soft patch of soil and took off at a desperate run as bullets tore a new drill in a small garden as the Fox dashed through it.

There were woods surrounding the grounds behind the chateau and the Fox ran for cover, diving into the underbrush.

_**Zing!**_

A bullet ricocheted off a tree trunk inches from the Fox's head. The terrified man raised his arms to cover his head and kept running. Two more bullets struck wood and spit slivers of bark onto the Fox.

None of this stopped the double agent.

The Fox tripped on a protruding root and he fell, just as quickly recovering and getting up. He could see the road through the trees and ran for it, hoping to get out of the sniper's territory.

There was a screech of tires and a car pulled up. Suddenly, the Fox was staring into the face of an equally surprised Mycroft Holmes.

At the same moment, the sniper broke out of cover and walked out from the shadow of a large tree, rifle aimed at the back of the Fox's head.

The double agent turned.

The gun faltered and both men froze, shock clearly expressed on their faces.

"Sebastian?"

"Greg!"

Both seemed just as shocked as the other.

"You're der Fuchs!"

"Heinz?"

A moment of shock passed and suddenly the Fox's face turned stormy. "You son of a bitch!" he yelled, lunging for the sniper, but Mycroft jumped out of the car and wrapped an arm around the incited man's waist, half lifting him up and dragging him back. "I'll kill you!"

Sebastian just stood, opened mouthed.

And then Mycroft realized with sinking heart.

_"Heinz got caught by the Germans and held as a political POW until he was recruited by the German Abwehr."_ he had told Sherlock and John. _"In Romainville, there were only two English speakers, you know? One was me, the other was a stranger... he was the only one in the Fort who spoke to me."_ the Fox had told him. _"The Germans said they'd keep a hold of him to make sure I followed orders."_

_Sebastian Moran_ was that other English speaker in Romainville, the Fox's friend.

Neither had seen each other since they had been separated in Romainville, the Fox been taken to be trained by the Abwehr, and Heinz left to languish in jail. Heinz must've been recruited later and put in the field without being informed about the movements of his friend. Perhaps they even told him he was dead.

They were only known as der Fuchs and Heinz, and they had never set eyes on each other. They had no idea that the other was involved in the mission until now.

How delightfully manipulative of the Germans. Now it all became clear.

The Fox had betrayed his country to secure his freedom and to save his friend without knowing Sebastian was in no harm. He had sabotaged and killed British citizens for nothing while his friend did the same.

His anger was well justified.

"You're the last target." Sebastian said slowly. "You-..."

He battled inwardly with his loyalty between the Fox, and Moriarty.

Mycroft took that moment of hesitation to reach into his coat pocket for his gun. Sebastian saw the movement and lifted his rifle, quick as a flash.

_**Bang!**_

The shot was propelled into the sky as Anthea, who had snuck around the car, tackled him, grabbing his injured arm and directing the barrel of the sniper rifle upward. Without giving him time to recover, she kicked the taller man's knee out from under him to bring his face down to a more easily manageable height, and punched him hard.

Sebastian flicked out a knife and swung it at the woman. Anthea blocked the knife with her arm but was sent sprawling by the sheer strength of the blow. While Anthea was quick and agile, she was in no way strong.

She fell, skinning her hands and knees on the dirt ground and Sebastian lunged after her to finish her off. Anthea saw him loom over her, knife upraised, and pressed her eyes closed, resigned to her death.

_**Bang!**_

After a moment or two of hard breathing, Anthea finally worked up the courage to open her eyes again. She forced them open.

Sebastian was sprawled on the ground at her feet, dead eyes half open. There was a splatter of blood on the ground that dripped from the sniper's forehead.

She looked up.

Mycroft stood panting, hands gripped tight around his smoking gun. He lowered his arms shakily and promptly threw up.

The Fox reached out a hand to steady him, eyes still on his dead friend. "You alright?" he asked slowly.

"I've never been much of a marksman." Mycroft confessed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I've never successfully shot a man in my life. I have people who do that sort of thing for me." he looked at the Fox's stricken face. "I'm sorry."

The Fox shook his head. "Don't be... you did what you had to do."

Then he broke down crying.


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Sherlock lay motionless on a hard cot, it was the best Molly could find at such short notice and John was grateful to her for it. Sherlock's head was swathed in bandages and his skin was paler, if at all possible.

John sat in a chair by his bed, just awkwardly waiting, speaking to him sometimes.

Sherlock hadn't woken up since surgery and Molly had grimly told John that he might never wake up at all.

"H- hi." John said awkwardly to the unconscious man. "It's John again... I mean, it has been for the last three visits." he let out a self-conscious chuckle. "Still here."

He watched the face of the man, practically still a stranger. A stranger and yet John had chased down German spies with him, lived with him, cracked German codes with him, got annoyed at him... laughed with him.

He felt like he had known this man forever.

"I know this may seem a little strange to you." John said to the man, "I mean, even_ I_ feel it's a bit weird, because we've only just met. But - um - I really hope you won't die." he said. "There is just so much I want to say to you, so much more I want to do with you."

He felt heat prickle a the corners of his eyes and sniffed.

"You know, the real reason I went back to the frontlines after I was shot-... the real reason." he coughed. "I went back out there to-... to die. I was so angry, and so afraid of the world, the war. I've seen so many people die. Enemies, friends, soldiers, boys... I didn't think I could handle much more. I went back out there, expecting not to come back."

John's brow was furrowed and he struggled with words.

"But then a convoy came and just plucked me out of the battle. I felt like I had just put an unloaded gun to my head. I was both relieved and disappointed to find that I had lived. Like I had somehow been cheated of death." John sniffed again. "And then I met you and-..."

A tear rolled down his cheek.

"You gave me meaning again. You were brilliant and infuriating, you were just so..." John trailed off, chuckled hoarsely. "I've never met anybody like you before. You're mad, bloody insane, and just so wonderful. I felt like I could live again. I faced down Moran, my-... God, my heart was beating so hard in my chest but I didn't run. I was afraid, but you were there and I was alive... and somehow that made everything alright. You helped me live, you know."

He touched his shoulder, brushing his fingertips over the scar. "And I don't want you to die." He said in a rush. "So... there."

He stood up, ready to leave. He walked to the door, turned, and walked back.

"And one more thing..." he said to Sherlock. "Don't-... don't die on me. Please, Sherlock, for me. _Fight._ Fight, and live, and come back to Baker Street because I don't know how I could go on living without you now that I've known you."

He squared his jaw.

"Wake up. I'll be right here, waiting for you."

And he walked out.

The door shut with a soft 'click', and Sherlock's eyes shifted under their lids.

* * *

The Fox was curled up in a tight little ball in their bunker on a British U-boat that would take them from France back to England. The exhausted double agent had reported all the information he had gathered to Mycroft, and when he had finished, had fallen asleep.

Mycroft was sitting on a metal chair bolted to the floor, keeping an eye on him. Anthea was with the ship's captain, overseeing their progress.

They had only been at sea for an hour and a half when trouble started.

"Sir!" Anthea rushed in, banging the door open.

The Fox jumped awake, startled, and Mycroft looked up. "What is it, Anthea?"

"German ship, Sir." the woman reported grimly. "Coming up on our tail quickly."

Both men paled. "How many?" the Fox asked her.

"Just the one." Anthea informed them.

"Can't catch a break, can-..."

Just then, a violent impact sent the submarine shuddering, cutting off Mycroft's sentence.

"Cheers, Mycroft." the Fox said dryly when the shakes finally subsided. "You had to go and jinx us."

A few minutes later, another torpedo rocked the ship and slowly tipped it to an angle and it became clear that they were hit badly.

They were sinking.

"We've got to abandon ship." One of the senior officers told their guests. "This old girl is going down."

The sailors methodically began destroying equipment to prevent them from falling into enemy hands. After a few hours, the entire ship had been stripped of its more advanced weaponry, their torpedoes were fired back at the opposition, wounding it slightly but not doing too much damage.

"Sir!" A baby-faced sailor called out. He couldn't be much older than eighteen. Mycroft was always saddened by the youth of many servicemen. "We've got one of ours approaching!"

Eight minutes later, a resounding underwater bang was felt and massive air bubbles exploded from the German U-boat. The British sailors all let out mighty cheers.

"Everyone, up onto the ship!" The captain shouted as their submarine surfaced and the hatch was opened, letting salty fresh wind eliminate the stale air inside.

"Oh, hallelujah." Mycroft sighed in relief as he filled his lungs with sea air.

Everybody moved as a whole body, surging up to the sunlight.

"Enemy ship, Sir!" Someone on the second British ship shouted. "Two of them!"

Everybody quickly began hustling, not wanting to be left behind.

_**Vroosh!**_

A torpedo struck the side of the sinking U-boat and exploded, knocking everybody off balance. Mycroft, who was already on the second British ship, grabbed Anthea by the arm and wrenched her aboard.

The Fox, who was climbing out of the hatch, was thrown clear off the ship with three other sailors.

"Fuchs!" Mycroft screamed.

The Fox drifted face down in the water, unmoving.

"Gregory!" Mycroft shouted, with little success.

"Sir! We've got to pull back." The captain of the second British ship shouted over all the noise.

"There are people still down there!" Mycroft called back desperately.

There were two men still on the U-boat and three in the water with the Fox. The captain bit down hard on his cigarette. "There's no time. We can't help them." he said stoically and stalked back down the hatch as the ship made ready to submerge.

Mycroft shot one last look at the Fox, still immobile in the water. Perhaps he was already dead? Mycroft shook his head sadly and turned away.

The British ship disappeared underwater in a storm of bubbles and swirls. And then it was gone.

Two British sailors cut through the waves expertly and dragged the Fox back onto the sinking U-boat. They turned him over onto his back and cleared his airway.

With a wet cough and a splutter, the Fox's brown eyes snapped open wide and he heaved onto his side, throwing up sea water.

The seven British men huddled together on the top of the U-boat and passed around slightly damp cigarettes as they waited for the enemy to pick them up or leave them to die.


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

"This is all my fault." Mycroft groaned into his hands as their U-boat drifted into harbor. "Shit, _shit_, he told me it was a bad idea. I should've known he would know what he was talking about!"

"You couldn't know that, Sir." Anthea said firmly. "He was a German agent. How were you supposed to trust him?"

"Because I _knew_ he was a good man but I didn't want to believe it because he was the 'enemy'!" Mycroft retorted, disgusted at himself. "He was a good man and I sent him to die, if that wasn't enough, I've abandoned him to die a _second time!_ He was so close, I could've reached out and touched him, dragged him to safety. If we only had a few minutes more!" he berated himself.

"There was nothing you could do!" Anthea told him emphatically.

"That is what I tell myself every time an agent dies. We are at war, and by consequence there are casualties! But this time is different." Mycroft clasped his hands together, agony clearly written on his face. "There was no reason for him to die."

There was a respectful knock on the bunk door. "Sir, it is time. We're very close to England, now." someone outside the door called and moved on.

Mycroft sighed and stood, expertly smoothing over his upset features and returning to his 'Iceman' persona. His Majesty's loyal Hound. He would have to show a stiff upper lip to his colleagues. And a hunter never shows remorse for the loss of his prey. No matter the Fox.

"Time to face the music." he sighed. "And to hear news of my brother."

Anthea nodded and followed.

* * *

The Fox had his hands cuffed in front of him and was separated from the six other Brits. The Abwehr, it seemed, had sent out descriptions of him and the sailors had recognized him as a double agent.

He was quite sure he would die this time.

The six sailors were taken away and put in jail when they returned to France, Irene Adler and two other German agents were waiting at port to escort the Fox back to la Bretonniere where he would no doubt be interrogated and perhaps tortured for information, and then executed.

The Fox inwardly steeled himself to his painful fate.

The three German agents put him in the back of a car with Irene while the two men sat up front and drove.

"It was quite the endeavor. You nearly escaped." Irene hummed, a hint of admiration in her voice as she lit up a smoke. She offered one to the Fox but he declined.

"Stop talking." One of the two men grunted in curt German.

Irene rolled her eyes a little and shrugged.

They had been on the road for little longer than ten minutes when suddenly, Irene pulled out a small hand gun out of her purse and fired twice, hitting both men in the front seats in the back of their heads.

The car swerved wildly and the Fox lunged forward, throwing himself over the back of the driver's seat to grab the steering wheel. With great difficulty, he managed to wrestle the car onto the side of the street.

"Adler, are you _crazy?_" he exclaimed, whirling around to see Irene smoking happily, clearly entertained by the rough ride.

"Did you want me to let them drive you back to the Abwehr?" Irene asked back, smiling.

The Fox paused. Then he frowned. "Why...?"

Irene flicked ash off her cigarette and looked out of the window. "I'm American." She stated as if that answered his question.

The Fox sent her a piercing gaze.

She huffed at him. "I've tried to escape the Germans many times before." she confessed. "They turned out to be more of a danger than protection." The Fox vaguely wondered what she needed the Germans' protection from. "So far, of the agents who have tried to leave the game, you've come the closest." she said slowly. "You've tried very hard, and the Germans have taken great advantage of you... I decided you should get a little reward for your efforts."

The Fox quickly decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Okay, then." he kicked the car door open and got out. "Where are we going?"

Irene raised an elegant eyebrow. "Who said anything about 'we'?"

The Fox looked at her, eyebrows raised. "You just shot two German agents and aided my escape. They're never going to let you get away." he pointed out.

Irene sucked in a lungful of smoke and exhaled largely. Then, she scooted over in the back seat toward the Fox, shoved the corpses out of the front seat and moved behind the wheel. Then, she turned and cupped his face in her hands, cigarette clenched between her teeth.

"Listen to me, Fox." she said slowly, every word crystal clear. "There is a plane in Calais that is waiting to take you back to England. The pilot is an... _asset_ of mine. One that I have been nurturing for many years. He will deliver you safely to England. I have already informed British Intelligence that you would try to get to them. They should be expecting you." She snapped her fingers sharply when the Fox's eyes clouded in confusion. "Hey! Listen to me!"

The man's eyes snapped back to hers. "You're not coming?" he asked dumbly.

The muscles around Irene's beautiful eyes tightened for a moment. "They killed Kate." she said at length.

The Fox did not know who 'Kate' was, but it was evident that she meant much to Irene. He was reminded that every agent had his or her story. Their own dreams before the war, their hopes before despair, their loves before death. He couldn't help but wonder what hers was.

"I've tried to run for so long." The female spy said. "I've spent my life, hiding, misbehaving, and I'm tired of it. Kate is dead, and I can't change that." She gently stroked the Fox's cheek. "But I supposed I should at least give you a fighting chance to succeed where I never have."

"What do you mean?" The Fox asked her.

"There is only one sort of man who would agree to infiltrate the German Intelligence when he has the option of freedom." The Fox shifted uncomfortably and looked away. Irene smiled at him indulgently. "And there is only one sort of high-ranked British Intelligence agent who would drive straight up to the gates of the Abwehr to save the life of one man."

She smiled sadly at him. "You deserve a chance. I saw that in Romainville when I first met you. You were a desperate and insane man who tried to escape a German concentration camp because you wanted to live... and I liked that. You deserved a chance."

The Fox grabbed her wrist. "Come with me."

Irene let out a dark chuckle. "You were always naively optimistic." she said.

"There are people in England, people who can protect you!" The Fox insisted. "People who can be your friend, people who you can fall in love with, and- and occasionally there are brilliant nuisances like Sherlock... I think you'd like him. So please, come with me!"

Irene shook her head. "I don't like 'people'... not anymore." she said with a note of finality in her voice.

The Fox shrugged weakly. "You're right, you'd eat Sherlock alive."

Irene laughed and nodded. "Probably." She took his hand gently off her own. "You can't save me." she said.

"Let me try." the Fox pleaded.

"I don't want to be saved." A lone tear rolled out of the corner of Irene's eye. "I want Manhattan... I want _Kate._ And England can't give me that. I can lure the German tails as far as Portugal." With that, the woman shut the door and drove off.

There was no mention of what would be done to her when the Germans caught up with her and realized the Fox was not there.

That was the last time the Fox ever saw The Woman.


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

The Fox had met Irene's 'asset' later that day and they had taken off in a supply aircraft. Obviously, Irene had secured this man as a potential escape plan in case of emergencies.

She was always such a sly and elusive woman.

"We will land in England by afternoon!" the pilot shouted back from his seat in garbled French.

The Fox gave him a thumbs-up to signify he heard. He doubted his shouts would be heard over the noise of engines.

"Uh-oh..." the pilot grunted, eyes suddenly sharpening as they lurched in the air.

The Fox leaned toward him. "What is it?" he asked the man in French.

"We've got company."

The Fox only had time to glance out of one of the cockpit windows before their whole side was peppered with sparks. The Fox was thrown by the force of it and everything went black.

* * *

It was a sunny day in London and the light set Sherlock's hospital room aglow. John was sitting by his bedside as usual, and Molly came in with a cup of coffee.

"Oh, thanks." John smiled at her.

Molly returned it and stood, hands fluttering nervously. "How-... how is he doing?" she asked.

"Um, I don't know." John shrugged. "Hasn't changed."

Molly's face fell and John instantly felt bad. "Oh, I see..." And she turned to leave.

_"... Wrong."_ A hoarse, almost inaudible whisper sounded.

Both John and Molly froze, then swiveled to stare at Sherlock.

The cryptologyst's eyes were cracked open and a small wry smile graced his face.

"_Christ_, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, grinning broadly. "You're awake!"

"Astute observation." Sherlock replied, clearing his throat. "Your powers of deduction have only heightened in my absence." he remarked sarcastically.

"Git." John snorted.

"Idiot." Sherlock shot back.

They both smiled.

"I had an interesting experience while I was unconscious." Sherlock mentioned casually as Molly moved around, getting him water and checking his vitals. "I had a vague feeling you were talking to me... you seemed to have a lot on your mind."

John froze, reddened, and lamely made an 'I meant for you to hear all that', expression.

Sherlock broke off into chuckles. "It was-... That was-..." He searched mentally for an appropriate word. "... Good."

John snorted. "Well I'm just glad nobody else heard that." he said dryly. "People might talk."

"They do little else." Sherlock replied, watching Molly leave the room.

Their eyes met and they both smiled again.

* * *

The Fox regained consciousness, curled up in a loose ball in the back of the French man's plane, blood warm and gooey on his forehead. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious.

"We're going down!" He vaguely heard the pilot screaming frantically in French. "We're going down!"

Flames licked the right wing and filled the plane with black smoke. The Fox felt the aircraft lean toward the side and lose height.

His heart nearly stopped right then and there.

The Germans had got him good this time. They were going to crash somewhere in German occupied France and die, or maybe the Germans would arrest them, and the Germans would then kill him dead.

No second chances.

* * *

"Do you think he'll make it, Sir?" Anthea asked uneasily as she and Mycroft stood on the airstrip waiting for the French plane Irene Adler had told them was coming.

"He'll make it." Mycroft said slowly, eyes trained on the skies. "He will."

* * *

The Fox lay flat on the hard floor of the plane, choking on smoke and fumes, his eyes watered.

"We're going down!" The Frenchman shouted.

The Fox fought to crawl to the front of the plane. "Where are we?" he called over the noise.

It was no use, he realized when he saw the Frenchman's wide, terrified eyes. His cheeks were soaked with tears. The man couldn't hear him through his panic. "We're going down! They've got us!" he moaned, French tumbling over itself off his tongue. "We're going to die."

The Fox squinted to see out of the windows, but he only saw smoke.

The plane suddenly took a downward turn and the Fox secured himself, holding on for dear life.

There was a massive impact as the airplane bounced on the ground twice and skidded with a scream of protesting metal. The fire reached for him, blown downwind and immediately scorched the air.

When they finally stopped, the Fox weakly dragged himself to the pilot only to realize that the man had died on impact.

He heard voices outside. Unintelligible words being shouted. The Fox realized that he must either be in shock, or his hearing must've been damaged.

He fought his way out of his metal cage and rolled inelegantly to the ground, sucking in sweet, fresh air.

German boots drifted into his vision and his heart sank.

* * *

"German! I am German! Don't shoot!" The Fox suddenly began garbling desperately in German, hands raised.

Mycroft exchanged looks of confusion with Anthea.

Then, both looked down at the boots Mycroft wore. The boots Anthea had given him to infiltrate German occupied France with. A German make.

"Don't shoot!" The Fox called out again, dropping weakly to his knees and putting his hands on his head.

Mycroft's heart nearly broke at the look of absolute anguish in the Fox's face when he realized that he must think they had landed somewhere in enemy territory.

The British spymaster immediately pulled his boots off and tossed them aside. "Fuchs!" he called out. "Fuchs, this is England! You are safe!"

The Fox froze, and slowly looked up. Mycroft gasped at the blood on the man's head.

"M-Mycroft...?" The Fox asked weakly.

"Yes, you are safe now." Mycroft assured him, grabbing the exhausted man under his armpits and lifting him to his feet.

"Safe..." The Fox blinked hard and wobbled, slowly looking around. His eyes scrolled over Anthea as if not seeing her but stopped and focused on Mycroft's face. "I'm in England." he realized slowly, awed.

"You made it." Mycroft smiled at him.

The Fox launched forward and suddenly, he was being kissed, a hard, messy pressure of two mouths mashed together. The Fox pulled back and let out an elated laugh, turned, and promptly snogged Anthea as well.

The man was high on adrenaline, glad to be alive. Mycroft smoothed down his coat and tried not to think too much into that kiss.

The Fox finally stepped away and leaned weakly on the side of the plane laughing and sobbing in equal measures, trembling like a leaf. Mycroft smiled softly. The man deserved a well earned rest and then some through all that had happened.

"Come on." he said with a small smile as he slung one of the Fox's arms over his shoulders and hauled him up. "Let's get that head of yours looked at."

Anthea smiled with relief at seeing the two reunited and busied herself with organizing the damage control done by the plane.

Mycroft and the Fox only made it a few yards out of Anthea's way before they slowed down, the Fox's eyelids drooping, his body relaxing with exhaustion. It seemed the energy had suddenly been sucked out of the double agent.

"I thought I'd never see you again." the Fox said quietly against Mycroft's shoulder where his head had lolled.

Mycroft pressed his lips together hard. "Nor I you."

"I was sitting on that U-boat, waiting for the Germans to pick us up and thinking 'Oh sod it all! Now I'll never see that charmingly superior look on Mycroft Holmes's face ever again!' It was a damn lonely thought... that I knew I was about to die and all I wanted to see was the face of the MI6 agent who captured me." the Fox tsk'ed to himself.

Mycroft looked affronted. "When have I ever looked at you in a superior manner?"

"The first moment you saw me order beer at a posh party." the Fox quipped.

"Alright, I did." Mycroft conceded.

"You bastard."

"You friendless soul." Mycroft snorted. "I'm honoured to be the last thing you might've thought about."

"Oh, then let's not mention the time I thought about your startled face when I asked if you were 'coming my way?' on the drive back to la Bretonniere. Or just now when I thought of you snapping me in cuffs in your bedroom, when we crash landed that plane because _God_, it would've been a good memory to die with!" the Fox joked.

Mycroft burst out laughing, blushing.

"Mycroft Holmes..." the Fox shook his head in amazement. "In all my pitiful life, I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"And you in mine, Gregory Lestrade, you in mine." Mycroft smiled softly.

The Fox froze, staring at him wide-eyed. "What did you say?" he whispered breathlessly.

For a moment, Mycroft dreaded that he had said something inappropriate. "That you are the best thing that's happened in my life."

"No-... no, not that."

Mycroft blinked and inclined his head. "Gregory Lestrade?"

A slow, incredulous smile inched it's way across the Fox's face and suddenly the man began crying.

Now Mycroft_ knew_ he had said something wrong. "I-I'm sorry if I've-... I know I must have-..."

The Fox launched himself at him a second time now, flinging his jelly arms around Mycroft's neck in a tight hug, burying his face in the spymaster's neck. "Shut up... just shut up." he whispered hoarsely in between hiccups. "You had me at 'Gregory Lestrade'."

It took Mycroft a moment to remember that Lestrade had been held prisoner in Romainville for three years, dehumanized, having his identity beaten out of him, and had worked for the Germans under the sole name of 'der Fuchs' for many years after that.

He realized with horror why Lestrade had not simply given his name to Mycroft in Camp 020 during his interrogation when he said 'he wasn't that man'.

He lived so long as 'der Fuchs', a saboteur, traitor, and assassin. He must not have been called 'Gregory Lestrade' for many, many years.

Mycroft slowly hugged the sobbing man back, wrapping one arm around the small of his back, the other threading through his short silver hair. "Gregory Lestrade." he repeated slowly. "Gregory." was whispered against Lestrade's temple as Mycroft pressed a chaste kiss there. "_My_ Gregory."

"I really fucking love you, you know that, Mycroft?" Lestrade said hoarsely into Mycroft's shoulder, slightly muffled.

"I hope I do." Mycroft chuckled, thinking back on every emotion he had felt during his brief acquaintance with the man. The emotions this brilliant man incited in him to feel in ways he had never felt before. "You have taught me the meaning of it." Lestrade let out a slightly hysterical giggle. "I love you, Gregory Lestrade."

Lestrade angled his head upward and they kissed again, for real this time. Soft, warm, mouths moving against each other wonderfully, and a playful little scrape of teeth on Mycroft's lower lip. The tease.

"My Silver Fox."

Their lips parted and Lestrade smiled, blinking sluggishly. "I love you." he said again. "God, you don't know how afraid I was that I'd die without telling you that." he breathed.

Then, his eyelids slipped shut and he promptly passed out.

Mycroft caught the limp man before he hit the ground and lowered him gently. "Gregory? _Gregory!_" He looked around. "Somebody get a medic! I need assistance here!"

Anthea got to them first, an ambulance a few minutes later.

Lestrade was handed gently from hand-to-hand, and into the back of an ambulance.

But he did not stir.


	22. Epilogue

Epilogue

It was a warm, sunny day as Mycroft walked through the cemetery with only one specific destination in mind.

He slowed to a halt in front of a plain marble headstone.

'Gregory Lestrade' were the only two words on the smooth surface. No 'good son', or 'beloved brother' ... Nothing. Nothing to say who he was, or how brilliant he had been in life.

Just a name.

"Yeah... I was a little shit back then. Bet they found it too hard to find anything good to say about me."

Mycroft looked up to see Lestrade walking up through the tombstones toward him.

"Your sister told me you had died... I had to confirm this declaration for myself." Mycroft said. "I am glad it is not true." He gestured to the headstone. "Would you explain this to me?"

Lestrade shrugged, scratching at the bandages wrapped around his head. "I told you about my colourful past life of crime?" Mycroft nodded slowly. "Well, things went sour with a few bad folk. They wanted to kill me."

Mycroft looked fondly exasperated at the way his lover casually explained that someone had wanted him dead, but let him continue.

"Anyway, it was dangerous for me... and for my sis. So I hatched a plan to fake my death. It-... that was when I had decided to leave and try to get to America. It was dangerous for me to stay. It would've put Maisie and Johno in danger and that was no life for a child." He shook his head sadly. "I always felt bad about leaving them. Maisie's boyfriend, that bastard, ran for the hills the moment she told him she was pregnant. She stuck with me ever since then. I was just a small time crook at the time, but I started working higher-risk jobs to pay the bills and took care of them. I had to run a few months before Johno was born. I've never seen my nephew before."

Mycroft looked at him. "You could come back... to them. Tell them you're still alive."

Lestrade shook his head. "It wasn't safe for them then, and nothing's changed now... in fact, I think it's only gotten more dangerous."

Mycroft shrugged. "After this all blows over, you could settle down somewhere. Live quietly and peacefully."

"I'd drive myself mad." Lestrade snorted. "I can't change who I am, Mycroft. And I won't try to."

They turned and left the gravestone.

"What will you do now?" Mycroft asked him as they strolled along.

"Anthea mentioned that Harry, your friend, suggested I continue to work for MI6 with you. At least I'd know what the Hell I'm doing, unlike some of those other sad excuses for intelligence agents like Anderson... Anderson was a shitty agent. I remember him from Coventry. And speaking of Coventry, that's what Harry want's me to work on. There must be a leak somewhere, and I've been trained how to spot potential German agents out. Hell, I've recruited one or two, myself."

Mycroft let out a low growl. "There was a reason I purposefully did not tell you about Harry's suggestion." he said petulantly.

"You're worried for my safety?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"May I remind you that the mission that brought us together consisted of two failed assassination attempts, a capture by the MI6, brief torture, an attempt on your life by the Germans, a sunken U-boat, a second capture - now by the Germans, another attempt on your life in the air, a crash landing, and some serious surgery." Mycroft frowned.

"Yes, I think your doctor's scalpel came the closest to killing me." Lestrade deadpanned, then shook his head. "It was_ one_ mission, Mycroft! And the two failed assassination attempts were on _your_ life! You should be _glad_ I failed."

"I am." Mycroft said brusquely. "But my point still stands."

"I'll out spook your spooks." Lestrade declared, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at his gravestone. "I'm a real ghost." he grinned.

"You stubborn man." Mycroft shook his head with a sigh. "Very well, do what you wish. But if you have any inclination toward changing your career, I can arrange for a position in the police force sometime in the far future. Dimmock has told me he is more than happy at the prospect of working with you again. It seems you've made quite an impression on him in your time as 'Aiden'."

"I'll think about it, but it might be difficult considering I am still a wanted man." Lestrade hummed as they walked out of the cemetery and approached Mycroft's car.

Just then, a man stepped out from behind a corner and extended his arm toward them, gun in hand. Lestrade reacted first and dove behind cover of Mycroft's car, dragging the spymaster with him.

"But for the moment, I seriously think I should just stick around and continue saving your arse!" He turned, pulling out a gun from his coat pocket and returned fire.

Their assailant fell to the ground dead.

Mycroft felt around his own pockets and glared at Lestrade. "Gregory, that is _my_ gun!"

Lestrade grinned. "I had quite a colourful past." He reminded as he handed Mycroft back his gun and wiggled his fingers. "Sticky bastards, these."

"I can see that." Mycroft grumbled.

They brushed glass out of the car seats and drove off, Mycroft would arrange for Anthea to pick up the assassin later.

"How's Sherlock doing?" Lestrade asked. "I heard about the nasty fall."

"He is alright." Mycroft smiled. "Ms. Hooper tells me he will make a full recovery. He and John have also decided to continue living in Baker Street together."

"That's great!" Lestrade smiled. "They really seem to get along well."

"Yes." Mycroft pulled up outside his flat and Lestrade walked him inside. "I am glad to have people looking out for him."

"Yeah, he's a real handful." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. "Anyway, I should be getting back to Baker Street myself. Mrs. Hudson promised to help me look for my own flat."

Mycroft cleared his throat nervously. "Ah, well-... I was rather contemplating a flat share of my own, if possible." he suggested.

Lestrade's mouth dropped open and he stared incredulously. "Mycroft... I love you and all, but you _do_ realize that I tried to kill you..._ twice_?"

Mycroft smiled. "I do remember."

"And well, I can imagine I'm not the best of flatmates for you at the moment." Lestrade persisted.

"Does that mean you do not wish to move in?" Mycroft asked slowly.

"_No, Mycroft!_ I'm bloody concerned about the state of your sanity!" Lestrade exclaimed, exasperated. He jabbed a finger at Mycroft. "You, Mister Holmes, have the most under-developed sense of self-preservation I have ever seen on a man of your occupation! It's bad enough that you intend to live the rest of your life out with the object of a horribly whirlwind romance! You _do_ know that we've practically only just met? Not to mention the fact that I was a German spy and you are an MI6 spymaster?"

God help him, Mycroft smiled fondly. Getting worked up and practically demanding Mycroft not live with him because he was worried for his safety. The man was adorable.

About halfway through Lestrade's rant, Mycroft had tuned his words out, preferring to watch that handsome face furrow and frown in a way that was too attractive to be legal. Mycroft just couldn't restrain himself.

He stepped inward and stopped the man's long-winded rant by kissing him.

"I trust you." he told the former German agent firmly. "Is that not reason enough to put my life in your hands?"

Lestrade's eyes softened and he returned the kiss. "I love you."

Mycroft tilted his head with a smirk. "So... coming my way?" he winked.

"Christ, I make _one_ flirtatious remark...!" Lestrade chuckled good-humoredly and made a sweeping gesture. "Lead the way. Let's get on with this tour."

"Well," Mycroft began, eyebrow raising playfully. "the bedroom is right this way..."

Lestrade burst out laughing and followed him.

THE END

* * *

A/N: Sorry if some of this story is historically inaccurate, History is not one of my strong suits. :(

Some aspects, characters, and inspiration of this story is taken from the true life story of Eddie Chapman, AKA; Agent ZIGZAG. I read about him in 'Agent ZIGZAG: The True Wartime Story of Eddie Chapman: The Most Notorious Double Agent of World War II'

If you haven't read the book, but are interested, I sincerely recommend it!


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